Liberate Me
by Tirith works
Summary: Time-travel, sort of. DH AU. MoD!Harry. Slash. / Harry is (re)born in 1909. His goal: prevent the rise of Voldemort and save the world. As for Grindelwald? Well, the chap just happens to own something Harry really wants. It's a shame Dark Lords are such possessive bastards. ::ARTWORK link on profile::
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello, dear readers o'mine!

Hm, what can I say? My muse is a fickle thing. She plays me like a boss; nagging ceaselessly, then deserting me the next minute. As such, my Hobbit story is on temporary hold, though _not_ abandoned. Instead, I present to you this delightful cliché of a Harry Potter time-travel. I hold out hope that I will be able to finish this one without other plot-bunnies drawing my attention away. (**Hint**: reviews are excellent motivation.) However, I already have the first eight chapters done, and I'm still rolling with the idea, so it seems the fic has a good chance of completion. No promises though.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Duh.

Warnings: The fic is rated M — I sure hope anyone who clicked on the link can deal with what that entails. The story is also plot-oriented. If you're here for the romance, it will take a while. Speaking of, there will be slash, eventually (if a character's inclination warrants a warning at all). The prose is a mix of British and American English — I read way too much without proper attention to the authors' nationalities to be able to differentiate as I should.

If I feel that further warnings are necessary, you will find them at the top of the chapter in question.

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

"The choice is yours, my boy. What do you want to do?" Dumbledore asked, the red Hogwarts Express letting out a merry chime in the background.

Harry felt the urge to snort, but no matter the old Headmaster's questionable intentions and decisions regarding his life, Harry still thought about the man as a beloved mentor and friend. He certainly wasn't about to show blatant disrespect if he could avoid it. "What I _want_? Headmaster, I either go back to fight a war and mourn the dead in the aftermath, or I die myself and abandon my responsibilities, my friends. My options have nothing to do with what I want," Harry stated, his tone so bitter, he hardly recognized it as his own.

These past months, years... his whole life — Harry was tired. He had done nothing except fight. And no matter the outcome, the end result was ultimately always loss. If he accepted Dumbledore's offer, what would he go back to? He would fight, he would kill, and even if the Light won, Harry would lose. So many friends, so many innocents have fallen victim to Voldemort's insanity. The Wizarding World's population was decimated.

"Harry..." Dumbledore trailed off sadly, the whimpers of Voldemort's Horcrux deafening in the awkward silence. Harry resolutely ignored the pitiful thing as his blank gaze wandered over the abandoned train station. He still found it odd; such a mundane setting his mind conjured up for his crossing to the afterlife.

"Life was never meant to be easy, my boy. One cannot appreciate that which they didn't fight for."

Harry couldn't keep it back this time; he did snort, fastening his green orbs on the forever idealistic old man.

"You don't understand. Everything is already ruined. I may build a new life, find things to live for that make me happy, but in the end, the loss will remain. I have lost too much for a cause which I don't entirely believe in. I _hate_ the Ministry, Professor. I _don't_ think our world is right as it is. I just hate Voldemort's vision and methods more. That's all there is to it. This war was definitely not waged for _peace_," he spat, the last word rolling off his tongue like acid.

Dumbledore frowned. "My boy, what are you talking about?"

"If the Light wins the war, what then?" Harry asked with a sigh. "Nothing will change. The Dark will not disappear. It will remain and keep fighting against its opression. Dark Lords will rise again and again. And the Light? They will do nothing to change. Corrupt and intolerant; it's their actions that give cause to war, even if they don't start it. There is no right and wrong here."

"Do you think Voldemort should win after all?"

"Of course not!" Harry snapped, rubbing his scar in frustration. Truthfully, he could hardly make sense of his feelings himself. He was just so damn tired, so... sad.

Dumbledore hummed, stroking his silvery beard as he gazed at Harry steadily. "My dear boy, if you want change, why not live and fight for that?"

Harry shook his head. "I would. That's exactly what I would do. But Professor, don't you see? Those who deserve it most are already dead and gone."

"And those who remain?"

"Is that consolation?"

"No, I don't suppose it is," Dumbledore conceded. "Yet it's what everyone has to face."

Harry groaned. "Headmaster, I know that. I'm not trying to get pity, nor am I blind to the pain of others. I am not the naive idiot I once was. But you have asked, and I answered. The choices you gave me are both bad — one because I already lost, the other because you offered it as a _choice_ in the first place. I could have died in peace if it weren't for the option to live." Some of his impotent anger at the situation leaked into his voice, and Dumbledore shot him a sympathetic smile.

"Ah, I see where this indecision stems from now," the old man said with a small smile. "You have already accepted death, wanted it even, and because of me, it became a struggle. You think I have made this a question of morals and strength of conviction."

Harry glared. "Well, haven't you?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I did. Yet I didn't. Harry, you have nothing left to prove. The decision is yours alone. I certainly will not pressure you one way or another." Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Dumbledore's presence itself was pressure. The twinkle was suddenly rekindled in the old man's gaze. "My dear boy, how about a compromise?"

"A compromise?" Harry parroted, taken aback by the turn.

"Precisely," Dumbledore said with a mischievous quirk of his lips. "Begin anew."

"Huh?" Harry asked intelligently.

"You can start somewhere where you haven't experienced loss yet, if you have no love left for the present."

"The present?"

"The present."

"You mean..." Harry gaped. "You are able to send me _further_ back in time?"

Dumbledore lifted his brows. "My boy, it is certainly not me sending you. I am but a part of this world of in-between, a projection. It is your ability to chose, and I the messenger."

Harry blinked in confusion. "I don't think I get it."

"You are Master here," Dumbledore clarified.

"Mast- Oh. Oh!" It was finally clear. The Hallows; Harry had died with all three of them in his possession. He was Master of Death. "The Hallows," he muttered out loud. Then a horrifying thought occurred to him. "Wait, does that mean this will happen every time? I will always have the choice?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "Quite."

"No," Harry whispered, "no, no, no! I have to get rid of those things!" He couldn't go through this... torture every time. He couldn't. Because in the end, he knew he would always live on. Wouldn't, couldn't allow himself to give up. And the Hallows — the damn things would have to go. Harry could never entrust them to someone else. His only option was to destroy them.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't make a difference, my boy," Dumbledore said, his tone melancholic. "You have earned your title for collecting them, the reward is yours."

"Reward?" Harry fairly screeched. "What kind of reward is this? I don't want it!"

"Don't forget, my boy, you may move on any time you wish. Even now."

"It's not that simple!" Harry roared in anger. "I thought you understood!"

Dumbledore inclined his head. "I do. And I must say; the Hallows couldn't have ended up in better hands."

"I-"

"Worry not, my boy. You never know what your future may bring."

"But-"

"What shall it be?"

Harry snapped his mouth shut, opened it, then closed it again. What an absurd situation.

"I- I'm not sure," he muttered finally. "I don't even know... How far back can I go?"

"There is no limit."

"Really? Say, can I go further than my birth then?"

"Of course."

Harry considered that. What should he do? He couldn't allow his rage to cloud his judgement. No matter how angry he felt, there was nothing he could do about the Hallows at the moment. Perhaps he would find a solution once he was back to the living — and how strange that sounded! But for now, he needed to think clearly.

So what to do with this unconventional opportunity? Harry had to make it count. He could save everyone if he played his cards right. All who had fallen to the madness of Voldemort. Remus, Tonks, Fred, Snape, Moody, Sirius... They could all be saved. All the innocents, muggles, children, murdered in cold blood over the years. Even Harry's parents.

"Wait," Harry focused back on Dumbledore. "If I go further than my birth, what about, uh, me? I mean, what body would I inhabit? And what if I met my other self? Hermione had always told us that time-travel was dangerous, too. Won't I create a paradox or something?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not at all, my dear boy. Unlike Wizarding magic, time-turners for example, _you_ are Master here. Your will is the influencing factor, not the laws governing magic. As such, no matter where you go, it will be a new reality for you to inhabit, a _new life_ — for all intents and purposes."

"New life," Harry murmured. "I would be born again, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"I will be an infant?" Harry furrowed his brows. "But Professor, it would be pointless if I don't remember my past."

"As I said, your will defines the outcome."

"So I can wish for my memories to remain intact, and it will happen?"

"Of course."

Harry nodded to himself. This was good. Better than he had initially anticipated. So then, where to go?

"I think... I suppose it all began at the orphanage..." Harry mused. Yes, Tom Riddle's beginnings. That's where the greatest difference could be made. And what was it that Riddle lacked? Parents and love. Harry could change that without having to resort to murder. He could negate the problem before it ever existed. "I would need to be at least seventeen by the time Merope gives birth... perhaps I could even save her along with her son..."

Dumbledore regarded Harry evenly. "You have decided, then?" he asked. "And my boy, I hope you remember that even if you succeed, Voldemort is not the root of all evil in the world, but a facet of it."

Harry scoffed. "I know that."

"Do you?" Dumbledore murmured. "Very well. I see you have made up your mind."

"I have," Harry said decisively.

Dumbledore's serious expression brightened, all misgivings forgotten. "Good, good!" he exclaimed with a jovial clap. "Farewell, my dear boy, and good luck!"

"Huh? Professor, wai-"

But a moment later, all was black.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I am absolutely thrilled with the lovely responses this story has garnered! Thank you all! In fact, you guys have been so awesome, I decided to update earlier than I initially planned to. I hope you enjoy! However, in the future, chapters will probably come once a week. This is because I would like to stay ahead, have a certain amount of chapters prewritten at any given time. If I updated too fast, I would quickly run out of material to post in a timely manner. Does that make sense?

On a different note, the first few chaps will contain frequent time-skips. Harry's early life is important from a character development perspective, but the fic is not centered around it. I will describe the general experience, accompanied by the occasional choice in scene, where necessary.

Lastly: You will find references to Christianity further down. I mean _**no**_ offence. A character's beliefs do not necessarily reflect my own. This is _**fiction**_. But religion can be a touchy subject, so this is my warning to you.

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

They were muggles, these new parents of Harry's. This was the very first observation he made as soon as his consciousness began to clear. He could remember flashes of their faces from before, but the past months had passed as if in a dream. As a baby, Harry had not been able to process complex thoughts — thus the first time awareness was gained, he must have been around half a year old.

For a horrible moment, Harry panicked. What if he didn't have his magic any more? But as soon as it occurred to him, he berated himself for the ridiculous fear. He could _feel_ his own magic flowing through his body, clearer to his senses than ever before, just as he could tell his parents possessed none.

The second thing Harry noticed, was that though they both spoke English, and his mother was a petite, pretty white woman, his father was almost twice her height with ebony-colored skin. Despite the man's intimidating size, however, his face was etched with deep laugh-lines and gentle, dark orbs peered at his son lovingly.

Harry giggled, then babbled in surprise at the sound. Had that really been produced by him? Very odd, and it seemed he couldn't control his reactions much. His hands and feet were also flailing around uncontrollably, and though Harry could feel them fine, his muscles didn't seem to be responding to his mind's instructions.

"Hungry, Harry?" the man asked with an amused smile, winking at the woman when Harry blew a raspberry. '_Gross_,' Harry thought with a mental wince. "Let's have mama take care of that, shall we?"

Harry was lifted from his wooden crib, and strong, black arms handed him over to his new mother carefully. He was carried over to a rocking chair in the corner, a patchwork quilt folded over the backrest, while the woman cooed at him.

"My beautiful baby boy, aren't you just the sweetest thing?" she murmured in awe, stroking his surprisingly thick hair, by the feel of it, as she sat down with Harry held tightly against her bosom. "Look at those gorgeous eyes, Bert!" she exclaimed happily, as Harry's father chuckled at the woman's antics, making it obvious it wasn't the first time — nor would it be the last — that his wife brought up the topic.

"Yes, Tessa, our little boy is amazing," he agreed indulgently.

"Truly, I have never seen the like. They're so green! Do you suppose they will darken? I hope not. Such a stunning shade! Why, even late Aunt Marla hadn't had eyes this vivid!"

"I wouldn't worry about it, darling," Bert said in gentle exasperation. "I once read; 'the eye is the window to the soul'. God shall grant him whatever he deems fit, and it shall suit him perfectly."

"Of course, dear. You're right. I was just being silly," she conceded with a giggle. "Isn't that right, Harry? Mama knows you will be perfect, no matter what."

Harry stared at her in incomprehension. What did his eye-color even matter? Though he had to admit, he did find it strange that he had apparently kept his previous shade, or at least something close to it. Perhaps his new father's words held more truth than he realized? Avada Kedavra — the color of death. Meaning to snort in bitter disgust, his vocal chords produced a fussy hiccough. Yes, he could agree that would suit him well.

Harry's trail of thought was rather abruptly brought to a screaching halt, however, when — spurred by his evident displeasure — his mother began to hurriedly unlace the upper part of her old-fashioned, lacy dress.

Then...

Oh no. Absolutely not! No, no, no!

- LM -

Learning to walk was one of the hardest things Harry had ever done. He was impatient and frustrated by how wobbly his movement were, but at least his mother finally gave up on breast-feeding a month ago, thanks to the spectacular fits her small son had thrown whenever he had been expected to suckle. Small mercies.

On the positive side, Harry had gathered much information this past half a year. He was in 1910, which meant he had been born in 1909. He was in Britain. His father was a musician — he frequently entertained Harry by playing soft Jazzy tunes on his saxophone. His mother... well, he wasn't quite sure what his mother did for a job, as she had spent most of her time at home with Harry. A housewife? But based on a few snippets of conversations he had caught, she came from a wealthy muggle family.

Speaking about her relations, those people were a nasty piece of work. Harry's maternal grandparents had visited a total of two times, and both occasions had ended with fights. They disapproved of their daughter's choice in husband greatly. Degrading remarks about the man had been spat every other sentence, and Harry hadn't been spared from their attentions either. Their issue appeared to be skin-color, for the most part, and though Harry's complexion was a soft mocha compared to his father's near-black, he still wasn't white _enough_ to escape the slurs. Harry was disgusted by their behavior, but he did recall that racism had been something of the norm in these times.

He had already steeled himself in preparation of the oncoming years. Harry was the fruit of a mixed marriage, and considering the year and the general mentality, this equaled social suicide. Harry couldn't say he wasn't disappointed.

Truthfully, he was downright depressed about it, no matter how much he loved his new parents already. Even in his new life, he was doomed to be an outcast. Was this what Dumbledore had meant? Evil didn't necessarily equal Voldemort. Harry had known this on a fundamental level, of course, but in his previous life everything had revolved around that mad-man. Every tiny detail, each problem he had ever had, could be traced back to Voldemort either directly or indirectly. Tom Riddle had become an icon, the representation of all that was wrong in the world. And however much Harry told himself that he had been ready to leave those ingrained beliefs behind, he was beginning to see what a contradiction he had created. He had traveled back in time to stop Voldemort's regime of terror before it ever began. But he had failed to realize — truly realize — that life was a struggle by definition. Preventing one disaster wasn't a solution. Voldemort's deeds were just more personal than the rest.

- LM -

Harry was almost five.

His parents had grown afraid of him during these last few years. It had hurt Harry deeply, but he had expected it to happen from the beginning. He was an unusual child, to say the least.

In the eyes of his peers and strangers, he was shunned for his skin-color. Most children weren't allowed to play with him, and whispers followed him any time he went out with his mother, most especially if his father was present as well. People pointed at them on the streets and a few shops refused to serve them altogether.

As for his parents; the social pressure coupled with Harry's oddity turned out to be a little too much to handle. Harry didn't _want_ to play like normal children. He didn't seek their company, wouldn't have made friends even if he hadn't been shunned. He didn't whine, he didn't cry. As soon as he had learned to talk, his speech had been perfect, his vocabulary most unusual for someone his age. He already knew how to read — one of his favored pastimes for lack of anything better to do — without anyone remembering actually teaching him. But none of this was what really scared the couple. Their son was a prodigy, a genius, somebody to be proud of.

No, what bothered them was the unexplainable... devilry that occurred around him. Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe, as they were properly called, were both stout believers of God, as just about everyone else on their side of the Globe. As was expected of any good Christian, they visited the church on Sundays, gave Thanks before each meal, and said their prayers at night. Their marriage indicated a higher level of tolerance, yes, and this showed in their interactions with their son as well. After all, Harry hadn't been subjected to beatings and exorcisms, nor had he been disowned. Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe were much too kind and compassionate people, even in face of _witchcraft_.

In their opinion, their son needed help, not retribution.

They were truly kind — and Harry stated this without any sarcasm intended whatsoever. They were muggles, raised in the nineteenth century, and any other in their position would have long since either drowned or abandoned such an unnatural offspring. Not Harry's parents, however. They feared him, true, bored him with those infernal Bible-readings and lectures daily, but they were never cruel. They wanted to understand him, and did their best to cure him of his demonic tendencies.

Accidental magic... it really was a curse. Harry didn't understand why he couldn't control it, or why it happened so often in the first place. In his previous life it was a rare occurrence. This time around, he managed to blow something up on a weekly basis. He didn't even need to be all that emotional for things to happen.

If he didn't feel like drinking milk, it spoiled. If he couldn't reach a book he wanted, the whole shelf came crashing down. When he got annoyed by creaking floorboards, the planks vanished. And if he was truly angry? He had nearly killed a nasty muggle woman in the park with a severed tree-trunk when she wouldn't leave his mother alone. Happiness, as rare as it was, produced staggering results as well — at one point, he had floated to the ceiling in giddiness.

Something had to be done. He couldn't continue on like this. His magic was getting out of hand, and wand or no wand, Harry would learn to control it if it was the last thing he did. How long until he murdered somebody without meaning to? The thought was terrifying enough to provide ample motivation.

So Harry began to train. The first step would be to direct the magic. If he couldn't stop it from breaking free, Harry could at least tell it what to do. He could sense the energy coursing through him fine, he just had to find a way to temper the actual effects it produced.

The next time he wanted a book from high up, Harry stood in front of the shelf, frowning in determination. He eyed the spine of the dusty tome above. All the books began to rattle.

Harry quickly closed his eyes, breaking his concentration. He took a deep breath. _'I want **that** book. I **want** it. _**_Only_**_ that one. I want it in my hands._' He continued to repeat the mantra, slowly putting his will behind the sentences. It took a few minutes for his magic to respond to the tentative desire. But when it did, when Harry felt it flow free, the result was worth it. The selected book floated down, slow as you please, and proceeded to hover in front of him until he reached out to pluck it from the air.

Harry grinned in triumph. Now for the practice.

- LM -

War. The muggles were at war with each other, and Britain was in the thick of it.

How could Harry have forgotten? It never even occurred to him that he could get caught in the First World War. It had hit while he was completely unawares, despite how he made it a point to keep up with general news. The signs had been there — in the papers, on the streets, unrest had been brewing for a while — yet it still came as a surprise when the attacks began, prior (if vague) knowledge notwithstanding.

It lasted four years. People lived in terror, bombs destroyed buildings and whole streets, fathers and sons were recruited as soldiers, and everyone mourned for the dead. Harry and his parents had fled to a small, rural town, not even a whole year in. Though his father was spared from the front lines, his status as a reknown performer providing some protection, he still left to give concerts frequently, and both Harry and his mother were in a constant state of worry that he wouldn't come home one day. But money was scarce, and Harry came to understand that Bert Marlowe was a very famous and much appreciated name in the Jazz circles — the only reason they were lucky enough that he had a paying job at all.

Then, just as the horrid war was coming to an end, an epidemic struck England. Harry had never seen anything like it. It killed ruthlessly. Millions fell victim to it. Some blamed the Spanish for the outbreak, as the earliest reports of the disease had originated from there. Then again, as calm descended after the war, news articles claimed many early cases of this 'flu' all over the world. Even if it _had_ started in Spain, they were hardly to blame, in Harry's opinion.

His father was the first to get ill. Bert interacted with a lot of people due to the nature of his job. As much as Harry wished and hoped he would be spared, it was almost inevitable that he fall sick one day.

Harry's mother, ever caring as she was, nursed her husband until Bert passed away, after which she became bed-ridden herself. Neither had been all that young, and the years of war had zapped a lot of their strength. They stood no chance.

Within the span of two weeks, Harry had lost both of them.

He raged, oh how he raged! It was unfair! Why did these things always happen to him? No matter their faults, his parents had loved Harry, and he loved them just as much in return. Why? Why? Harry may not have been absolutely, blissfully happy with his new family, but he had been content. They had cared for him, however terrified they had eventually grown of his powers. Harry never wished them harm. They had been kind people, and hadn't deserved to die in such a way. Why must they be taken from him? Why?

For the first time in years, Harry let his magic run wild. He had gotten so good with control, but he didn't even try to contain it now. The force ravaged the house. He was lucky no neighbors lived in the immediate vicinity, because Harry certainly couldn't have guaranteed their safety. As it was, not ten minutes after his outburst, soldiers arrived to investigate after getting reports claiming there had been a terrorist attack.

Harry was 'rescued' from the ruins, and got taken to his only known, surviving kin; his mother's parents. Naturally, the old bastards weren't exactly thrilled with his presence. Not only was he of color, but the couple had heard whispers about his unnatural habits as well, even if Harry failed to exhibit his powers in their presence as proof. And after the death of his parents, Harry had become more withdrawn than usual, hardly spoke at all, unsettling his grandparents to the point where they snapped.

They drove him to London in their expensive motor-car, deposited him in an alley, and told him in no uncertain terms that they better not cross paths again. When an officer finally caught him after a few days on the streets, Harry lied.

No, he had no living relations.

He was taken to the closest orphanage in short order.


	3. Chapter 3

Dear readers,

all your amazing encouragement is blowing me away! Thank you SO much! Special thanks to unregistered reviewers, whom I couldn't personally respond to! I never expected this story to be received so positively. Thank you!

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

Two years of absolute hell. There was no other way to describe it. If he was truly the child he pretended to be, this would have broken him. Harry was worn; mentally as well as physically. If his experience in the orphanage was anything like Riddle's, he could well understand how the man had turned out as he did. Or still could, in case Harry failed his self-appointed task.

Because even after all that had happened, Harry stayed true to his original goal. He _would_ save the world from Voldemort. He had been helpless in the face of the muggle war, senseless tragedies, and his own fate, but he would be damned if he let Voldemort gain power again when he was in a position to prevent it. His determination never wavered.

Honestly, it was the only driving force he had left.

If it wasn't for his need to have a legal identity, he would have long since escaped. Harry's wandless magic was advanced enough to glamour himself older and flee Britain altogether. But he hadn't. He just wished he had had the presence of mind to lighten his skin-color back when he had been first left on the streets. He could have spared himself a lot of grief. Alas, he was stuck with it. He had endured the resulting abuse, persevered with his head held high. He wasn't giving up his pride.

He was lucky he had his magic under control, otherwise exorcisms would have been the least of his problems in the accursed place.

That day, however, would finally bring his salvation. It was the thirteenth of June. Harry turned eleven. Finally.

- LM -

Hogwarts was incredibly boring, much to Harry's disappointment.

As in the Muggle World, Harry was regarded as an outcast. The only difference was that the children here hated him because of his blood-status, not his skin-color, especially since he had been sorted into Slytherin. At least his housemates weren't violent, for the most part, and they left him be thanks to his apparent 'genius'. Some even sucked up to him, though Harry wasn't blind to the disgust in their eyes that they occasionally attempted — and failed — to disguise.

Harry didn't care. There was hardly anything in the world anymore that he would get worked up over. It was easier not to give a damn. They were only children anyway, and he an adult. What would flaunting his superiority prove? It would have felt like bullying puppies. So Harry ignored them all, kept to himself, and completed schoolwork he had already learned long ago. He did make a minimal effort to fine-tune his knowledge, however. It would have been a waste not to do so.

The years dragged on. As unchallenging as repeating the curriculum was, Harry occupied himself by spending most of his time in the library. Hogwarts' extensive collection truly was a marvel, and if for nothing else, Harry was grateful he got a second chance to pursue his own interests amongst the tomes. He learned about some branches of magic he had never even heard about in his previous life, what with actual studies and death-threats looming above his head. He discovered he had some talent in curse-breaking, and he had already planned to work in the field once he graduated. If he wanted to adopt Riddle, in case it came to the worst, he would need a stable job after all.

Harry also didn't give up practicing his wandless magic, though he did it in secret, behind the sealed doors of the Room of Requirement. One never knew when such an ability would come in handy. Besides, his wand didn't seem to be responding to him all that well, perhaps due to his mastery of the Death Stick. Or maybe it was because it wasn't the Phoenix wand he had bonded with in his first life? Fawkes was not yet around, and neither was Dumbledore, for that matter. Harry didn't know.

Speaking about the Death Stick — Harry really needed to collect the Hallows sometime. If there was any chance of breaking this... cursed gift he had been bestowed with, he needed all three items in his possession. He knew the general whereabouts of two; the cloak with the Potters — it was unfortunate there was no scion of the family currently in attendance at Hogwarts — and the stone with the Gaunts. The wand... well, Harry didn't even know where to begin searching. The only definite information he had about it was that Grindelwald had stolen it from Gregorovitch somewhere around his twenties, if the old wandmaker's description of the events were to be believed. Grindelwald had probably harnessed its power to become the Dark Lord he had grown to be. If Harry could take it from him before he would launch the Wizarding War, the man's rise to power may be prevented altogether. Wasn't that an amusing thought? He came here to take care of a Dark Lord, but could end up saving the world from two. Hah! Savior he was indeed.

- LM -

At long last, Harry was in seventh year. As glad as he was about being able to put an end to this charade soon, there was one teensy little glitch in his calculations he had realized much too late.

Tom Riddle would be born, come New Year. And Harry was still in school, even if he was already seventeen. This presented... problems. Either Harry managed to save Merope Gaunt, or Riddle would end up in the orphanage. Not that Harry couldn't adopt him in a year or so regardless, once he had a stable income, but he would rather the future Voldemort not spend a minute in such a disgusting place. Harry wouldn't wish it upon anyone, especially not a helpless babe who had the potential to become a mass-murderer if handled wrong. Harry was almost giddy with the knowledge that he himself wouldn't have to go back to his personal hell for summer ever again.

But how on Earth could he save Merope? He knew nothing of her current whereabouts, and it was mere weeks until she was due. Harry knew where Riddle was going to be born, but he was also aware Merope had died not an hour after the procedure. Maybe he could snag the witch before she reached the orphanage seeking sanctuary, and apparate her to St. Mungos? Yes, that was probably her only chance, though Harry didn't put much faith in her survival either way. Sadly, from what he recalled, the poor woman had long since given up on her life, pumping all her meager magic into helping the infant Tom live. It would be much too late to help her by New Year's Eve, Harry expected.

"You wish to go back to the orphanage for the winter break?"

The question snapped Harry out of his musings. He quickly focused his attention back on the Head of his House, a Charms professor named Geordole Aspfang.

"I must say, I'm surprised. You have never requested for leave before."

Harry shrugged, slouching in the chair facing the professor's desk. He batted away a few long, tiny braids that tumbled forward with the movement. Maintaining such hair was a pain, but it was either this or a buzz-cut, lest he end up looking like a bloody electrocuted sheep. The thick, curly Afro style he inherited from his father was one of his least favorite traits on this new body he inhabited.

At least his eyesight was good.

"I'm seventeen now, sir. I have no intention of revisiting the orphanage."

Aspfang raised his brows. "Where, then?"

Harry held back a scoff. What business was it of his? He couldn't stop Harry from doing as he pleased. Hell, Harry could leave Hogwarts altogether if he so wished... Wait!

That was it! The solution!

Harry sat up straight, looking the man dead in the eye. The professor seemed taken aback by the sudden intensity, though he quickly schooled his expression into a false sense of mild curiosity. Harry knew he was apprehensive though. For some reason, people seemed to grow increasingly scared of him as he matured. Not even a stray "mudblood" had been uttered in his direction for the past year and a half. Harry couldn't quite grasp the reason, not that he was complaining. He wasn't all that imposing a figure; he was thin, not too terribly tall — what with his mother's genes running interference — and his face wasn't ugly or deformed. Honestly, his features were perhaps even a bit too gentle (in Harry's opinion, anyway). Perhaps people's attitude had something to do with his so-called prodigy status? Either way, he could definitely use it to his advantage.

"I changed my mind, sir," Harry drawled, watching Aspfang's reaction closely. This should be fun. "I'm leaving Hogwarts. I won't be coming back."

It was comical, the utter bafflement on such a usually composed face. "Wh-what? But-"

"I am off age. It is my right to do whatever I want. And I wish to leave."

Aspfang spluttered for a few seconds before he collected himself enough to speak. "Preposterous!" he spat angrily, glaring at Harry. "I know you have not been raised in a proper Wizarding household, but to disgrace the Slytherin House this way...! You are a Wizard, Mr. Marlowe, and will adhere to our traditions as any self-respecting member of our community!"

"Oh?" Harry said, twirling one of his braids around a finger nonchalantly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Professor, but I was under the impression one isn't required to have formal schooling in order to take their OWLs or NEWTs, as long as they fit the age requirements."

Aspfang's eyes widened. "Ah, I..." he trailed off, clearly unsettled by the direction of the conversation. "You mean to say you will take your exams, then?"

Harry nodded. "Correct. I will be back for the tests. I would be ever so grateful if you could help sign me up for them, Professor. I would rather avoid running in circles with the endless Ministry procedures if I can avoid it."

"But why?" Aspfang asked in confusion. "You are one of the brightest students this school has seen in decades, if not more. Why would you give up now?"

"I am not giving up. I just have better things to do than reviewing material I already know," Harry answered, not the least bit shy about it. He had grown out of any false sense of modesty years ago. He wasn't conceited, but he wasn't about to downplay his skills when showing them was to his advantage. Besides, Harry knew he was only perceived as anything but average because he had twice the time to master his magic than other kids.

Aspfang nodded slowly. "I suppose I can see what you mean," he conceded, though his tone was reluctant. "Are you certain this is what you want? I will not try to stop you as long as you don't abandon your studies altogether, but wouldn't it be better to weather these last few months? Graduating from Hogwarts means prestige, and I guarantee you won't find another library even close to this level within Britain, and especially not with free access. I thought you enjoyed it, too?" he implored. "And what about work? Where will you live?"

Harry stared at the man. He actually sounded _concerned_. It was an odd notion. Harry didn't think anyone cared all that much. True, most of his professors were very pleased with him, but Aspfang had never shown any feelings one way or another. For the most part, Harry had assumed the man would be disgusted with his dirty blood, like the rest of the Slytherin house. Honestly, in the first few years, Harry had been positive Aspfang had disliked him. How hadn't the noticed this change?

Letting his expression soften slightly, Harry shot the man a minuscule smile. It felt strange to use those facial muscles after such a long time.

"Don't worry, Professor," Harry began. How much to tell Aspfang? It would probably be prudent to have someone at least partially privy to his plans, now that he thought about it. Less of a chance the Ministry could contest his claim if Harry had a Hogwarts teacher on his side. Not that he anticipated interference, but it was always good to have back-up. "I... I have a Godson," Harry decided to say. It would be true soon enough. Yes, it shouldn't be too hard to have Merope sign a document announcing Harry as Tom's Godfather. Harry would bet anything the witch would be grateful for any help by the time they would meet. Someone offering to take care of her son would be too good an opportunity to pass up for her. "I'm afraid his mother is not in the best condition. I may have to take over his care sooner rather than later. I don't want to leave him in an orphanage — they are less than appropriate places to grow up in, in my experience," he sneered.

Aspfang's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What of the father?"

Harry shrugged. "He's not around. Merope is a witch, you see, but the dad is a muggle. He didn't appreciate it when he found out."

Aspfang scowled. "Filthy muggle trash," he muttered, then squinted at Harry suspiciously. "Was she a Hogwarts student? I don't remember her name." '_Nor you getting close enough to anybody to be named the Godfather of their child_,' went unsaid, but it was clear to hear.

Harry shrugged again, noncommittal. Let the professor draw what conclusion he will.

"In any case, I shall be leaving tomorrow. I will owl the withdrawal forms to Headmaster Dippet, and I will await the registration forms for my NEWTs later on, if that's all right with you?" Harry dodged the subject none too smoothly, wanting to end the conversation. He had told Aspfang more than enough. After the man gave a reluctant nod, Harry reached up to fiddle with the Head Boy badge on his uniform. He didn't think he deserved the honor anyway. "Here," he said, freeing it from the cloak and placing it on the table.

Aspfang stared at the shiny pin in resignation. "You never did seem to want it," he murmured in an absent tone.

Harry smiled again. "No, sir. I didn't." He stood, and walked to the door of the office. He glanced back before he exited. "And Professor? Thanks."


	4. Chapter 4

Hello, dear readers!

Again, I have received so much awesome feedback! I think I managed to answer everyone, but if I missed anybody: Thank you! The same goes to guests as well! :)

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

Finding temporary work and lodgings had turned out to be much easier than anticipated with nine Outstanding OWLs under Harry's belt. As soon as he had left the Hogwarts grounds in the morning, Harry had made straight for Hogsmeade. He had planned to start looking there, then continue on to Diagon and Knockturn Alley until someone hired him. He wouldn't even attempt it in the Muggle World — most wouldn't serve him as a customer to begin with, let alone consider employment. Well, not without a glamour, and Harry had no desire to live a lie if he could help it. It came as a pleasant surprise, however, when the third shop he entered in the Wizarding village — a bookstore, of all things — gave him the clerk job on the spot. The owner was an old witch, Mrs. Bernart, who was happy to find someone with a passion for books to take over the management while she spent time with her grandchildren. She was even kind enough to rent out the small two-bedroom apartment above for a true pittance, once Harry told her the same story Professor Aspfang had heard, if a little more colorful and heavier on the emotional side.

Yes, Harry had no issue with using her pity. He had done much worse things over the years. He wouldn't be staying all that long anyway, only until he sat his NEWTs and entered the curse-breaking business.

The shop operated in accordance with the Hogwarts schedule. It was always open on weekends, and was closed on Monday and Tuesday, though the rest of the weekdays were just as slow. Come Saturday, students began poring out of school, usually seventh years with the exception of official Hogsmeade weekends, when the whole student body from third year up swarmed the the streets at once.

Winter break was fast approaching. Before Harry knew it, December had arrived and Hogwarts let out. He was thankful for the reprieve; students had been annoying him with their endless gawking, and a few professors even came by, unable to comprehend why their Head Boy would leave for... this. Harry shrugged them all off. In retrospect, it may have been smarter to skip Hogsmeade and try his luck at Diagon Alley, if only to avoid the questions.

In any case, on his days-off, Harry commenced with his revised plans. He usually left in the morning, apparating straight to London. As was logical, he began his search for Merope in the Wizarding districts, mostly the more disreputable ones. Knockturn Alley was the first on Harry's list. He spent two whole days inspecting every nook and cranny for the elusive witch. After all, it was confirmed she had visited Borgin and Burkes at some point, so it stood to reason she may have found sanctuary nearby. But no matter how hard Harry looked, he couldn't find her there. The only reward his time in Knockturn yielded was the locket with the bejeweled Slytherin insignia, which Harry unceremoniously stole from the disgusting man that had had the gall to cheat it out of a desperate, pregnant witch.

Next, Harry turned his attention to the less known Wizarding locations. There were always a few magical streets near the larger Wizarding nodes in town, like in the vicinity of the Ministry, St. Mungos and the bigger Quidditch Clubs. Yet Harry had no luck. In the end, he resigned himself to the knowledge that Merope was probably wandering Muggle London, and Harry's chances of finding her were abysmal at the best — not without a strand of her hair or some blood to complete a scrying ritual with. In a last ditch effort, he had taken to checking around Wool's Orphanage every night, hoping to spot her nearby. Alas, the witch didn't show. It was sad, but in the end, Harry had accepted that he could do nothing but wait for New Year's Eve.

In the meantime, Harry began to work on his Hallow problem. He started with the easiest — he went to collect the Gaunt ring. The experience was... unpleasant. The shabby shack on the outskirts of Little Hangleton looked just as uninviting as Harry recalled from the Pensieve memories. But the visual was nothing compared to the terrible smell that hit him in the face with the force of a bludger upon approach. He knocked on the door, trying not to gag all the while, but no one came to answer. In the end, he barged in, only to find the rotting corpse of Marvolo Gaunt slumped against the kitchen table. His son, Morfin, was still in Azkaban, and it appeared none in the village had been particularly inclined to check on the elder male since completing his own prison sentence, settling back in after three years.

Harry divested the ring from his decomposing finger with a grimace, then proceeded to levitate him outside, burying him beside the shack with a few flicks of his wand, which he always used when out in the open, lest someone detect his wandless abilities.

That done, and wanting to forget the fiasco altogether, Harry turned his sights on the Potters — his future? ex? would-be? family. His first trip led him to Godric's Hollow, but upon finding the house of his memories occupied by muggles, Harry berated himself for his idiocity. Of course the Potters wouldn't be living there; they were an ancient, pureblood line, and the homey little building had been nothing more than a convenient hiding place for Lily and James. Now that Harry thought about it, it was likely the recommendation about the location had come from none other than Dumbledore himself, who had spent his childhood in the village.

It took some serious research, but working in a bookshop had its perks, and Harry finally confirmed the location of the ancestral Potter Manor in Wales. Apparently, this must have been destroyed in his previous life, because Harry had certainly never heard so much as a whisper of it.

Upon visiting, however, Harry had to admit that stealing the invisibility cloak at the present would be downright impossible. The building had wards to rival Grimmauld Place, and Harry was in no hurry to get branded a thief when (not if) caught. On the positive side, after a few hours of camping in the vicinity — spent with moody, disappointed brooding — he spied a small boy, around six years of age, playing on the grounds. In a few years, the child would attend Hogwarts, undoubtedly carrying the cloak outside the safety of his home. Stealing the Hallow from the school wouldn't be much easier a job, but at least Harry would have more of a chance. He could saunter into the castle without repercussions whenever he pleased after all, unlike into the Potter Manor, which was under the absolute protection blood-tied wards offered. Harry could wait. He still had a wand to collect anyway.

- LM -

It was the thirty first of December. Sadly, it was not a holiday, unlike January the first would be, so Harry had no choice but to open shop in the morning. On the bright side, Mrs. Bernart was as sympathetic as they come, and had allowed him to close up as early as noon.

At ten past twelve, Harry had already settled by the gates of Wool's. He sat beneath a naked chestnut tree with strong Disillusionment and Warming Charms, passing time by scanning the street for any sign of the pregnant witch. It would have been boring if not for the nervous jitters keeping Harry alert.

Hours slipped by, the London bustle dying down as families gathered in their homes for their celebrations. Darkness descended slowly, and with it increased the tension in Harry's shoulders.

Where was she? Where was Merope?

Just as Harry lifted his wand to cast the nth Tempus in so many minutes, a rustle was heard from the shadowed side-street to the right. Harry jumped up immediately, squinting into the night. He listened, and, sure enough, slow shuffling could be made out, getting closer and closer to his position. When the source of the noise came into view at last, Harry could only stare for a long heartbeat.

It was Merope all right. The features and unsettling eyes, gazing in two different directions, were unmistakeable. But that was where the resemblance to Harry's memories ended. The woman looked like a walking skeleton. Her face was gaunt and pale, and she wore a thin, tattered cloak that did nothing to disguise the twigs her arms and partially bared legs had wasted into. She was staggering unsteadily, supporting herself by leaning against the wall, her free hand clutching at the only rounded part of her anatomy; her belly.

Harry quickly snapped out of his daze when the witch tripped forward, landing on her knobby knees with a soft cry as she shielded her stomach in a protective hold. With barely a thought, Harry canceled the Disillusionment Charm on his person, and hurried over to help.

"Miss Gaunt," he murmured once he reached her, taking her upper arms in a gentle grip to hoist her up. She flinched, her hazy gaze attempting to focus on him, though it was hard to tell if she succeeded with her crossed eyes. She turned her face to Harry, at the very least.

"H-help," she muttered. "My ba-baby... p-please help," she continued to plead, her words mangled by chattering teeth.

Harry cast a Warming Charm as well as a Notice-Me-Not, drawing her emaciated body nearer to keep her standing. She wasn't short, almost Harry's height, in fact, but she was so frail, Harry barely had to use any strength at all.

"I will. I am here to help," he soothed.

Harry felt horrible for what he was about to do, but it was necessary. Everything could depend on it.

"I only have one condition, Miss Gaunt." He pulled out an official-looking roll of parchment from the folds of his cloak, one he had payed a lawyer to draw up in preparation of his plans not long after leaving Hogwarts, as well as a Blood Quill he had procured in Knockturn Ally — quite illegally. "You just have to sign this for me, and I'll take care of everything. I promise."

"S-sign?" she repeated in incomprehension, swaying in Harry's arms. "My baby... Pl-please... My b-baby..."

"I will save your baby. I will take care of him, and I'll help you. You just have to sign your name," Harry said, his heart breaking for the poor woman. He hated himself for this. He wished he could apparate her to St. Mungos already. But what if she died, regardless of the healers' expertise? If he wasn't proclaimed Riddle's Godfather before taking Merope to the hospital, things could get exponentially more difficult. It may as well ruin it all.

Taking her bony hand in a light grip, he folded her frozen fingers over the Quill. When Harry was sure she wouldn't drop it, he quickly unrolled the parchment, placing it against his chest with a wandless Sticking Charm. He didn't think Merope was in any condition to notice his unusual ability, and the situation was rather desperate.

"See here, Miss Gaunt," Harry said, pointing at the dotted space she was required to sign. The movement was a little awkward while balancing the woman at the same time, but Harry managed. He retook her hand, guiding the tip of the Blood Quill to the correct location. "Just write your name, and I will do everything in my power to save you."

"M-my baby..."

"Yes, your baby will live. I'll help. You only have to sign."

She stared in the general direction of Harry's chest fixedly. After a few seconds of tense silence, her wrist jerked.

"I must s-sign," she muttered, and a crazed glint entered her eyes. "Sign, si-sign, sign..."

"Exactly. That's all you have to do," Harry encouraged, though it wasn't needed at that point. Her fingers moved mechanically, and a splotch of blood appeared on the back of her hand. Merope didn't so much as hiss in reaction. As soon as she was finished, Harry yanked the Blood Quill from her grip, stuffing it back into his cloak with the parchment.

It was done. He wasted no more time to whisk her away.

- LM -

Harry had been sitting in the waiting room for hours. The corridors of St. Mungos were surprisingly lively, considering the date. Then again, the bustle may have been _due_ to New Year's Eve, instead of in spite of it. Harry had seen the oddest cases ushered into medical care, like a man whose nose spat sparks reminiscent of fireworks, or a kid sneezing confetti all over the spotless white tiles.

Harry sat in the uncomfortable chair, his spine rigid, tapping his feet in an impatient manner. His gaze followed each Healer and Medi-witch that came his way, but there had been no news of Merope so far.

He was ready to scratch the wall in frustration, glaring at anyone who dared so much as glance at him, when a Healer finally walked up to him with purpose. The man's face was grim, and Harry winced.

"Mr. Marlowe, right?"

Harry nodded hastily. "Yes, Healer...?"

The man inclined his head. "Jones. My name is Antal Jones, and I was put in charge of Merope Gaunt's case."

"How is she? And my Godson?" Harry asked, his words fast and nervous — most unlike his usual self. But Harry couldn't help it.

Jones shot him a small smile. "The little one is perfectly healthy. His mother even named him before..." He looked uncomfortable, pausing before he picked up the sentence again. "I'm afraid we couldn't do much for Miss Gaunt. She completely exhausted her magical core. She fell into a coma, and we are unsure if she will wake from it."

"...A coma?"

Well. That was certainly... unexpected. But a coma was better than death, wasn't it? People woke up from comas all the time. Right?

Right?

Jones nodded. Harry almost sighed in relief before remembering the man wasn't likely to be a Legillimence.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Marlowe. The chances of her regaining consciousness are extremely low. I can either release her to your or some other relative's care, or — and this would be my advise — we could admit her to the Mary Heartstone Ward for Magical Depletion patients, where she would be professional hands."

Harry closed his eyes.

"I understand," he mumbled, rubbing his forehead where his scar once stood, the habit too ingrained to shake from his last life. He had a choice to make. Then again, there really was no question about it. Harry was in no position to dedicate his time to the unconscious witch — possibly for years to come. He had a job, and he would apparently have Riddle. There was no way he could act as an efficient nurse to Merope as well.

"How much would this cost? If I were to leave her in the hospital?"

"Well, considering there's not much we can do for her, except wait and give her nutrients, I don't think it should be too expensive. Additional costs may arise in case of complications, but you better discuss the details by the front desk."

"I'll do that, then," Harry agreed with a heavy heart. "When can I take Tom home?"

Jones raised a brow. "So you know the name?" he asked.

"Ah, er, Merope was always sure, you see..."

"Of course," Jones said in forced amusement. Harry wasn't sure he appreciated the effort. "In any case, little Tom should be good to go within a day. We will keep him under watch for the night, but I see no problem with you coming to pick him up tomorrow. The father is dead, correct?"

Harry shrugged. "He might as well be. He disappeared after the pregnancy was confirmed."

"Very well." Jones nodded with furrowed brows, but then shook his head. He was obviously preparing to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Marlowe. You may visit Miss Gaunt then as well."

"All right. Thank you."

With a brisk bow of his head, Jones said a hasty goodbye, and hurried off. Harry sighed, watching the man's retreating back. His life was about to get complicated.

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><p>AN: Yeah, Merope _isn't_ dead. But she won't come up for a while after this. And I shall say no more.


	5. Chapter 5

Hello, dear readers!

Thank you for all your reviews! They're appreciated and motivational as always. :)

Now, more and more of you have been asking after Grindelwald. So to any silent lurkers and shyer readers on the same track of mind, I thought I'd mention this:

I understand your impatience! I honestly do. But I never intended this to be a shippy kind of fic, as mentioned in the beginning. I enjoy a plot with a dash of romance much more than romance disguised as plot (— not that the later can't be good on occasion, I would just rather not write it). I couldn't rush things for the sake of Gellert's earlier introduction. I promise he will appear in the not-so-distant future, so please bear with me.

PS. A reviewer pointed out a significant canonic detail I'm ashamed to admit I have completely forgotten. _Gregorovitch _had the Elder Wand. Gellert stole it from him in his twenties. Ch3 was confused on this point, so I made a small, teeny-weeny adjustment to indicate it right after the previous chapter had been posted. Nothing else has been changed. I'm very-very sorry. T_T

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><p>Chapter 5<p>

Complicated didn't even begin to describe it. Taking care of the little menace was unexpectedly challenging.

For one, within days of the baby's arrival Harry had grown so sleep-deprived, he had resorted to buying a house-elf with the meager amount of savings he had managed to accumulate since leaving school. The small, bubbly creature, Lolly, was also great help whenever Harry had to deal with customers in the store.

That was another thing; for lack of anything better to do, Tommy-boy spent his days in the bookshop where Harry could keep an eye on him. With the permission of Mrs. Bernart — who got that manic glint in her eye all women display when confronted with any manner of cuteness — Harry had set up Tom's crib beside the counter, and had a shelf underneath it containing all kinds of baby-related supplies, like bottles of artificial milk, cloths to use as nappies and so on. Harry often thought of singing Lolly's name in odes for her invaluable assistance in changing diapers. When he himself had been in Tom's shoes in this life, feelings of embarrassment had always overpowered the sheer yuck-factor, but ever since Tom had come to live with him, Harry's respect for his parents — both sets — skyrocketed.

However, even with Lolly, as well as Mrs. Bernart on occasion, raising Tom was exhausting business. The baby was as demanding as the man would become, and would throw a fit anytime Harry dared to leave him alone. Even asleep, Tom would twist and turn and grumble (not whine — never whine) until Harry gave in and either picked him up, or sat close enough to hum and stroke his back, at which point he quieted and smacked his tiny lips in satisfaction. Harry found it endearing and annoying at the same time.

The date to begin his NEWTs had arrived in a blink of an eye. Harry had grown so focused on Tom in those first months, he had hardly taken note of anything else. It had been as if living in a bubble, but the tests served as a forceful wake-up call. Leaving Mrs. Bernart or Lolly in charge of the babe for a few hours at a time was all well and good, but what about later? How was Harry supposed to find employment as a curse-breaker when he was, for all intents and purposes, home-bound for the next two to three years, at the very minimum?

In short, the answer was no-how.

Harry just had to put the rest of his plans on hold, until Tom got old enough to attend pre-school. Harry wasn't about to completely home-school him, certainly. It would be best if Tom learned to interact with his peers early on, as well as learn about the Muggle World without the horrid orphanage to distort his perceptions. Harry would be always there for him, of course, but isolating a potential Dark Lord from society didn't sound like a good idea. Besides, it would be good for the boy to make muggle friends. In fact, it could prevent outright genocide, which was good motivation as any.

And so, the first year flew by. Harry remained at the bookshop — which became inexplicably busy ever since Tom had arrived — and dodged the attentions of various school-mates and professors, who would come by periodically for one reason or another Harry failed to grasp. Even in the summer, some of his ex-classmates — mostly the the Slytherins from Darker families — would drop in, buying a book or two Harry _knew_ they would never open, and they didn't even taunt him, as Harry would have expected. It was mystifying. Maybe they only wanted to gawk at the dropout? Not that Harry cared. He had more Outstanding NEWTs to his name than any one student in decades, except possibly Albus Dumbledore himself.

As for Tom... Well, Tom was a special kid. As odd as Harry had been the second time around. He had uttered his first word at no more than seven months of age. Unsurprisingly, it had been an indignant, clear "No!" brought on by Harry's insistence to wrestle him into a buggy for one of their daily strolls to the nearby park. Tom wasn't a fan of the multitude of cooing women that gathered around whenever they were out and about. In fact, Harry had a sneaking suspicion that the boy hated just about everyone, not counting his Godfather.

Yes, with Harry, Tom was baffling in his clinginess. Perhaps it had something to do with the bond they once shared? Harry had no idea. But in general, the boy avoided contact with all others, squirming away and sputtering when touched, even with Lolly. Harry would be lying if he said it didn't worry him, though the behavior filled him with warmth, pride, and affection in equal measure. It had been so long since anyone had depended on him, liked him, looked to him with anything stronger than vague dislike. Also, Tom was still young, and Harry hoped that with correct guidance, he would eventually grow out of this antisocial 'phase'.

Other than this, however, Tom proved to be the true prodigy Harry had never been. He was talking in full, though simple sentences by his first birthday, and controlled his movements with careful, slow precision in everything he did — at the table, during bath-time, and while taking his first steps — as if he was afraid to embarrass himself with uncouth childishness. It would have been funny if it wasn't so extraordinary to watch.

All in all, regardless of doubts, frustrations, and tiring chores, Harry was happier — not to mention more active — than he had been in long-long years. Who knew raising a Dark Lord would make him feel so complete?

- LM -

"Harry?" a thin, measured voice called.

It was a slow, June afternoon. The weather was uncomfortably hot, with nary a breeze to relieve the sweltering heat. As such, Harry and Tom were shut away behind the secure, closed door of the bookshop, a generous number of Cooling Charms providing a level of comfort. But the wonders of magic notwithstanding, it was impossible to escape the stifling, oppressive atmosphere that had descended upon Hogsmeade thanks to the climate.

Tom was turning five that year. It was high time to enroll him in school, no matter how reluctant Harry became about giving up the peaceful, day-to-day harmony they had built around themselves. Harry could hardly believe how fast time had flown by. It seemed like only yesterday that the toddler had demanded bedtime stories, or needed help (however unwanted) to tie his shoelaces. Recently, Tom had grown incredibly independent, and Harry missed the little tyke that required his undivided attention at every turn. Nowadays, the boy grew even more disdainful about assistance of any kind than he had been to begin with, and if Harry was to be honest, he had to admit that Tom really didn't need help most of the time — which didn't mean Harry wasn't prepared to provide it.

On the other hand, Tom was as attached to Harry as ever. The little boy attempting to remain dignified and mature while snuggling on the couch in their apartment or crawling into Harry's bed at night was mighty amusing. Charming, in a Slytherin sort of way.

"Harry," the call sounded again, impatient and a little ruffled at being ignored.

"Hm?" Harry groaned, lifting that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet from its strategic position atop his face, used to block out some of the light while Harry relaxed in his chair, feet crossed on top of the counter. Lethargically, Harry tilted his head to the side, opening one eye to glance at his charge. Tom was sitting in the armchair Harry had bought after the crib hadn't been necessary anymore, situated in the small corner Tom had announced to be 'his'. Mrs. Bernart didn't seem to mind, so Harry allowed Tom a small shelf where he could hoard his favorite books — he had learned to read relatively well by the time he was three and a half, smart devil that he was — as well as a low stand to place candles upon for additional light. Just that week, the boy had developed a profound interest in magical creatures, especially dragons, and had gathered all the tomes in the store dealing with the information. Harry let him for the time being, though Tom was required to place the books back where he had found them once he was done. There was not enough Galleons in the world to buy everything that interested the boy.

However, Harry had to frown, cracking both lids open, when he noticed Tom's focus nowhere near the forgotten book laid out on his lap, nor upon Harry, whose attention he had been so insistent to draw.

"There is a burning peacock outside," Tom stated, his words succinct and carefully enunciated, hiding his confusion behind a wall of stoicism. It was all Harry could do to refrain from grinning at the transparency. Tom had years to go before he would be able to fool Harry.

And so, with his good cheer restored, Harry sat up with a stretch, following Tom's line of sight with his gaze. ... And blinked.

"Fawkes," he breathed in awe before he could stop himself, staring at the beautiful bird zooming down the deserted street, disappearing in the direction of Hogwarts. Harry sprang to his feet in excitement, striding over to the display window to peer out, hoping to catch another glimpse. If Fawkes was there, that meant Dumbledore had finally come to Hogwarts. At last! Harry had been itching to see his old mentor again, talk to him, get to know him without that blasted Prophecy or Horcrux business hanging over both their heads. Even though he had Tom now, Harry had been so lonely in this new place and time. He missed his friends, Ron and Hermione especially, and had no new ones to fill the gaping hole their absence left him with. Of course, he knew it was in no small part his own doing, pushing away people with his indifference on the rare occasion goodwill had been offered, but Harry had been hurt enough. Forming new bonds scared him. Yet Dumbledore... the soon-to-be Transfiguration professor was already one of Harry's precious people, no matter their past differences or pain inflicted and received. Harry had long forgiven the man for his role in Harry's fate.

"Fawkes?"

The questioning voice snapped Harry out of his thoughts. He turned to Tom with a mischievous smile playing at his lips.

"Never mind that," he said with an airy wave, shaking some of his braids behind his shoulders. He was in a happy mood now, and he could already see Tom squinting at him with a suspicious (cute, way too damn cute!) frown. "I have homework for you — find out what type of creature that was. Here's a hint: it was not a peacock."

Tom scoffed. "You should just admit it if you don't know."

Harry lifted a dark brow in amusement. "I thought you like to find out things for yourself?"

"Hmph," he pouted childishly, though Harry would never dare call the boy on it, lest he be given the cold shoulder for a solid week in retribution. "You're a good source of information as any. If you know, just tell me."

"Really? Since when? I seem to recall you throwing a fit last time I presumed to educate you 'on matters you had no need of my input on.'" Yes, that was the exact phrase Tom had used, doubtlessly having read the term 'input' in one book or another, wanting to incorporate it in his vocabulary as soon as he got the chance if only to show that he could. Harry really needed to pay more attention to the reading material his little charge got his paws on.

Highly miffed, Tom scowled at Harry's logic. "I have seen my... error," he forced out through gritted teeth, unwilling to admit any mistakes, yet aware that as long as he remained obtuse, Harry wouldn't back down on the matter, and would refuse to share with him the wealth of knowledge he possessed. It was in Tom's best interest to clear up that unfortunate blunder if he wanted access to his Godfather's mind.

Harry gave a sage nod. "Ah, I see, I see," he drawled in understanding, fighting back a laugh bubbling in his throat. "In that case, how about I tell you what the creature is, and you can research its characteristics? You can tell me what you found, and I will add in anything you missed. I'll answer any questions you have, too."

Tom's angelic face lit up in glee, like Harry anticipated it would. An offer to expand his knowledge, as well as a challenge? The combination was too good to pass up for the boy, independence be damned.

"Okay," he chirped, the word starting out high and excited before Tom got his emotions under check, drawing out the last syllable to cover for the slip, making it sound rather similar to a hiccough.

"It's called a Phoenix," Harry said quickly to force down the giggles threatening to erupt, deciding to add after a moment, "spelled P, H, O, E, N, I, X."

Tom's eyes sparkled in satisfaction as he bent over the book in his lap, paging to the Contents to see if there was any mention of the bird. When he found none, he discarded the tome without hesitation, reaching for the next one in the row. Harry noticed him pause.

"What is Fawkes, then?" Tom remembered to question, just as Harry walked over and flopped back down on his seat.

Harry shrugged. "Fawkes is the name of the Phoenix we saw."

"How do you know? Have you met it before?" Tom asked in curiosity, peeking over the rim of his lifted book, sly gaze focusing back on the page a moment later.

Harry snorted at the act. "I have, although he hasn't met me," he said.

"That makes no sense," the boy retorted with a dubious frown. "You'll tell me about him when I'm done with my research," he concluded. How he managed to ask a question as an order, Harry didn't know. The kid had _not_ learned the talent from him.

Nonetheless, Harry nodded placidly. "I will."


	6. Chapter 6

Hello, dear readers!

Thanks for all the reviews! :)

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><p>Chapter 6<p>

As it turned out, meeting up with Dumbledore came about much easier than Harry could have foreseen.

The very next day around noon, Harry was ready to fall asleep, sprawled halfway atop the counter in the bookstore, with Tom shooting him reproachful glances Harry could almost physically _feel_ all the while, when the bell above the front door chimed.

With a stifled moan of discontent, Harry dragged himself into a proper sitting position, braids tumbling down around his face in a messy curtain. With a graceless wave he flipped them back, yawning wide enough to make his eyes water. He swore if it was that moronic Avery girl again, one of the more persistent Slytherin ex-classmates of his that visited often, all haughtiness and attitude, wanting only Merlin knew what (because polite conversation or a good book were definitely not it), customer or no, Harry would send her home with something to remember. Most were already somewhat wary of him; it wouldn't be too hard to give them actual _reason_.

Of course, once he set his focus on the general direction of the entrance, it became evident Harry had jumped to conclusions too fast.

Mouth dry and tongue tied, he could only gawk at his unexpected guest. Catching himself, Harry hastily schooled his expression when the familiar man cleared his throat.

"Good day," Dumbledore greeted in an amicable tone.

"Likewise," was Harry's automatic response.

They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. That is to say; it felt uncomfortable to Harry. He could also tell Tom's confusion was increasing by the second, not understanding his Godfather's puzzling behavior, though as expected, the boy made a convincing show of being absorbed in his text, if one didn't know him.

But Harry couldn't help it. Dumbledore was just so... different. Blue eyes fairly glowed with life and vitality, accentuated by the smooth, youthful skin stretching over his face, as well as the strong, auburn locks framing it. Most astounding of all; his beard barely reached his collar. His choice of clothing was also unusual, to say the least — his robes looked _normal_; no merry, giggling pixies, prancing unicorns or atrocious color-combinations. A weird sight, if Harry ever saw one.

Experienced clerk and awe-inspiring salesman that he was, Harry sat frozen in place, struck mute. He didn't snap out of the stupor until Dumbledore pursed his lips to conceal his puzzled amusement, and marched over to the nearest shelf to inspect the titles.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," Harry sputtered as he stood, mentally flailing around for a good excuse. "We don't get too many customers at this time of the year, especially not on weekdays. You surprised me." There — a good, Slytherin save, as well as an acceptable conversation-starter. Harry could have awarded himself a medal for wit and cunning.

Dumbledore turned to him with a smile. "That's quite all right. I don't suppose the lack of students to raid your stocks has anything to do with it?"

Harry chuckled, relieved and exhilarated that his blunder had been overlooked. He didn't want Dumbledore to leave with the impression that Harry was an imbecile. "Got it in one, sir. Hogwarts is the main source of profit around these parts," he said smoothly, approaching the other man with easy strides. He gave a silent sigh when he noticed his once-mentor was still taller than him by a few inches. Harry had hoped they would stand on equal footing the next time their paths crossed.

Dumbledore scrunched his nose. "Sir? I suppose I will have to get used to that..." he trailed off, then continued with his trademark twinkle, "but I would be grateful if you could leave off the formality? I am not that old, I should hope."

"Of course. As you wish." Harry certainly agreed. Dumbledore couldn't have been much older than forty; pretty young by Wizarding standards. Besides, counting the total sum of years, Harry was well over thirty himself. "May I help you with something? Anything you're looking for in particular?"

"Yes, yes, good of you to ask," he said, tilting his head at the books in consideration. "I am to be the new Transfiguration teacher at the school. Albus Dumbledore, at your service — with a great many additional middle names I cannot be bothered to recite in good company. Tedious business, you understand." He tipped his head.

"I am Harry Marlowe. It's a pleasure," he introduced himself in turn with a straight face. He was _not _about to fall for that bait. Harry was perfectly aware that Dumbledore adored his complete, horrid list of mind-bending names. The wizard just had the good sense to realize how pretentious he would sound if he started out that way with everyone he came across. His brilliant solution was to make people inquire themselves. 'Tedious business' indeed.

Dumbledore nodded with a pleased grin, not at all bothered that his game went ignored. "Actually, I was wondering if there were any good spell-books I could build my curriculum around."

Harry raised an incredulous eyebrow. "And there were none to your satisfaction in the Hogwarts library?"

"I'm afraid as extensive as the selection is, I found the editions a tad outdated for my tastes," Dumbledore confided with a contrite hum, as if embarrassed to find the great Hogwarts lacking in any shape or form. "I had thought to see what the market had to offer."

Harry brought his arm up, tapping his lips with a finger. "I can assemble a package for you out of the more useful variety of books we carry. There should be a few that could suit you purposes. If you have the time, you are welcome to scan through the contents. I'm sure Tom won't mind the company," Harry declared while nonchalantly drawing, then flicking his wand towards the corner to conjure a second armchair facing Tom's — a subtle show of talent he hoped Dumbledore would take note of. They _would _be equals this time around, if only in magic.

Harry hid a grin when he saw his charge twitch in his seat, still feigning disinterest in his surroundings. Harry was sure he would pay the price for letting strangers invade 'Tom's territory' later, but he really wanted to keep Dumbledore around, and the boy could benefit from the meeting, too. Tom still had trouble with strangers, never communicating or even acknowledging their presence if he could help it. Perhaps Dumbledore would be a good influence, as ironic as it would be compared to the other life.

But Harry was getting ahead of himself. Tom just needed to learn to deal with people outside their private bubble. He would be going to school after all, come September.

Dumbledore nodded, and set off for the new chair with a covert, conspiring wink. Harry rolled his eyes at himself; of course the man would notice such an obvious scheme. He was one of the smartest masterminds Harry had ever known — and one of the nicest as well, calculating, clever manipulations aside. It wasn't surprising to see the same sharp nature displayed in his youth.

"Hello, young man," Harry heard Dumbledore begin, but he pretended to busy himself with collecting the requested Transfiguration material. "I apologize for the intrusion."

There was some shifting, and Harry glanced at the duo from the corner of his eyes in time to see Tom give a jerky shrug while scowling behind his book.

"Ah," Dumbledore then exclaimed, ever jovial, as he leaned closer to the boy to inspect the cover he held. Tom shrank back in discomfort as his space was invaded, though he still refused to look up. "_Magical Beasts Through The Ages_ — a splendid read!" When there was no reply forthcoming, Dumbledore continued as if he had never paused. "I myself found it informative and interesting, nowhere near as dry as some others I've come across. I must say, however; it is most surprising to see it in the hands of one so young. How old are you, young man?"

As expected, Tom only glowered harder at his text.

Meanwhile, Harry had already pulled most of the tomes he needed off the shelves, and, with leaden arms, walked to the corner to place his burden on the stand between the armchairs.

With an inward smirk at his charge's stubbornness, Harry addressed Dumbledore.

"Tom is turning five by New Year's," he said, propping himself against the side of Tom's seat, crossing his legs.

The other man's brows shot up. "And he's already so proficient? Amazing!"

Harry smiled down at Tom, proud. "Right? He was reading by himself before I knew what was happening. Never had to show him something more than once. He is a pleasure to teach."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Yes, quite the extraordinary son you have!"

"Godson," Harry corrected, though he was sure Dumbledore already knew they weren't blood-related. It was rather obvious. The man was fishing, not that Harry minded. "He's my Godson, although I have been the one to raise him," he said, inwardly wincing at the thought of poor Merope, motionless and pale in her lonely hospital room. But Harry quickly shook the memory off. This wasn't the time to get preoccupied by the unpleasant notion of the unfortunate witch. In fact, Harry was rather partial to ignoring the matter altogether. It did him no good to wallow on things he couldn't change.

"I see."

Harry shrugged. "In any case, he recently found interest in magical creatures, so if you need anything on the subject, I suggest you check his shelf here. I don't think there's a book on the matter left anywhere else in the store."

Dumbledore laughed. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, turning back to Tom. "Creatures can be fascinating, wouldn't you say?"

Caught watching the exchange between the two men, Tom grimaced and rearranged his expression to reflect his disdain. "Why else would I be reading about them?" he drawled, his tone a good imitation of Harry's own when annoyed, as if questioning the older man's intelligence for having to ask in the first place. Nonetheless — Harry coughed behind his hand to hide a chuckle — at least he was responding.

"True, true!" Dumbledore cried happily, not at all bothered by the frosty attitude. "Any in particular you're interested in?"

With a put-upon sigh, Tom deigned to lower his book at last, fastening grudging eyes on Dumbledore, though not before shooting the glare of doom at Harry.

"Dragons," he snapped. "And Phoenixes," he added as an after-thought. "I am researching them at the moment."

"Excellent choices," Dumbledore approved, then added sincerely, "I can see how you would be taken by them. Phoenixes are my personal favorites as well."

Tom stared, as if he couldn't believe his ears. Harry gave himself a mental pat on the back — yes, having Dumbledore speak to the boy had been a great idea. Tom expected all adults, except for Harry, to be condescending, seeing only the ignorant child instead of a person in his own right. It was a refreshing change to have someone taking him seriously. It was easy to tell that Dumbledore was honest with his words.

"They are?" Tom muttered.

Dumbledore gave an empathetic nod. "Indeed, I even have a dear friend amongst the race."

Tom glanced up at Harry, but quickly zipped his eyes back to the other wizard. "We saw one in Hogsmeade yesterday. Is that... your friend?" he asked, tasting the word, rolling it around his tongue like it was foreign.

Hearing that question, however, Harry was hardly able to hold back a groan. He could only pray Tom wouldn't mention that Harry had possessed prior knowledge of Fawkes. It would be tough to explain that to someone of Dumbledore's calibre in a convincing manner. Harry wished he had remembered not to orchestrate the meeting before he had the chance to warn Tom about it being a secret, although the boy was probably smart enough to deduce as much without Harry's express instructions to go by. Harry had, after all, mentioned that he may know the bird, but the reverse wasn't true.

"He's the one. His name is Fawkes."

Tom nodded slowly, but to Harry's overwhelming sense of relief, he let the topic drop. Harry had never been so grateful for Tom's social issues, as the boy lifted his book back up, signaling the conversation to be over.

Dumbledore, not one to get hung up on such things, simply grinned, turning to the pile of Transfiguration books Harry had deposited within easy reach.

"There's more than I expected," he mused. "Well, I better begin. Much thanks for the help, Mr. Marlowe."

Harry batted the air. "It's just Harry. Did you want some tea while you check those out?" he offered. It was out of character for him to do so, and they were in a shop, not having a house-party, but this was _Dumbledore_. Besides the man had gone along with Harry's little ploy to loosen Tom up. It was the least he could do in return.

Dumbledore lit up. "Oh, I do love my tea! Any Earl Grey, perchance?"

Harry inclined his head graciously, holding back a knowing grin. Some things never change. "Of course."

- LM -

Dumbledore spent another good hour with them, pouring over book after book under Tom's envious looks at his speed, until he came upon the perfect course material. He left the store happy with his purchase, and a promise to come again for a chat. Apparently, he had enjoyed their company.

Harry was pleased.

Tom... Tom, not so much.

"What is _wrong _with you?" Tom burst out, an angry scowl contorting his beautiful, aristocratic features as soon as he realized Harry had been watching him. "You acted like... like... different!" he decided upon, getting even more frustrated when his abnormally vast vocabulary proved inadequate to convey his meaning. To salvage his injured dignity due to the mishap, he added, "You were nice!"

Harry cocked his head with a sly grin, while mentally wincing at Tom's accusation at the same time. Maybe it was his fault the boy remained so antisocial? He was learning by a less than stellar example Harry had unintentionally set? But Harry had always encouraged him to make friends at the park, to participate in games, to find common ground with kids his age, even if they weren't as smart as him. Yet perhaps he had underestimated the child's comprehension skills? Had Tom been observing the way his Godfather built his own relationships to base his standards upon? If so, Dumbledore's continued, regular presence could turn out to be more helpful than Harry would have ever expected.

On the outside, however, Harry showed none of his dilemma. "What?" he asked, innocent as you please. "I thought you liked him?"

"Did not!"

"No?"

"No!"

"Really?"

The empty teacup Dumbledore had left behind burst and shattered into thousands of tiny porcelain-shards, the silence deafening in the wake of the boom.

"Careful there," Harry clucked. He then broke out in a full belly laugh, surprising not only himself, but Tom as well. The boy's jaws actually dropped at the sound, already too dazed by the sudden explosion to control his reactions. Rarely did Harry ever laugh with such abandon.

"Congratulations!" Harry crowed. "That was your first bout of accidental magic! You're officially a wizard."

A smug, self-satisfied smile stretched across Tom's cheeks.

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><p>AN: Huzzah for Dumbledore! XD


	7. Chapter 7

Hello, dear readers! Thank you for the lovely reviews, as always! Also, happy Christmas in advance for those who celebrate it! Thanks to the hols, I don't know how I will have time to update (I have family/friend reunions and skiing-trips on the horizon! :-D), but I will definitely try to keep to my weekend schedule! I'll do my best!

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><p>Chapter 7<p>

"I hate you."

It was stated with so much venom, Harry could almost believe it.

Almost.

"No, you don't," Harry said, not bothering to look up. He and Tom were sitting at the kitchen table in their small flat, having breakfast Lolly had prepared before Tom's first day of school. Well, Tom was having breakfast, while Harry attempted peel his eyes open long enough to plop a satisfyingly obscene amount of sugar into his coffee. One hand stirred the beverage after his success, the other supporting his heavy head. It was way too early for this.

And on his day off, too.

"I'm not going."

Harry sighed. "Why are you so against it? I thought you liked to study."

Tom scoffed. "You are sending me to school with _muggles_."

"So?"

"So? So! I'm not a muggle. I'm different from them!"

Harry batted a sleepy hand through the air. "No, you're not. They're the same as you or me, sans magic." He paused. "They have science."

"Exactly! We are better!" Tom exclaimed triumphantly, disregarding Harry's point with stubborn ease.

"Sci~ence," Harry sang.

"Who cares? Besides, I can learn their science at home if I want."

"You could," Harry agreed. He could feel the room brighten. "But you won't." The ominous atmosphere returned with a vengeance. Harry groaned. "You are not allowed to use your magic yet, anyway. Not to mention that based on your logic, it would be futile to enroll you in Hogwarts as well."

Tom averted his gaze angrily. Then, he finally got to the real crux of his problem. "I don't want to go. Why do I have to spend my days among stupid children?"

Harry smothered a smile with a yawn. That sounded dangerously close to a whine. "Well, you _are_ a kid yourself."

"That's not the point," the boy gritted out. "Why can't you teach me at home, like until now? They're stupid, all the others."

Harry raised a brow. "Albus, too?"

Tom scowled. "No," he admitted. "But he's annoying."

Harry tsked. Albus, as Dumbledore had requested to be called, had dropped by the shop a fair number of times since their first meeting. He even brought Fawkes along once, much to Tom's reluctant awe. More often than not, the man also managed to drag Tom into their more interesting conversations. Still, Harry's plan to make Tom socialize had backfired a little. Tom hated Albus, despite not being able to help some of his intrigue leaking through his walls. Harry was quite certain that the boy was just possessive of his Godfather to the point of hostility, for the most part. He perceived Albus as a threat because Harry liked him, even though Tom's grudging admiration was partly due to that exact same reason as well. It was a catch twenty-two at its finest.

"How will you find smart people if you never go out, then?" Harry asked, changing tact. "I assure you; the World doesn't solely consist of idiots, if that's what you need to make a friend. You only have to give others a chance. And who knows? People, muggle or magical, may have a lot in common with you, even with a lower intelligence."

Tom grimaced in distaste. "Why would I want to have anything in common with someone beneath me?"

"Oh? So they are beneath you because they're slower? Or because they're not wizards?"

"Naturally," was the snotty answer to both.

Harry hummed, leaning back in his chair. "I'm a wizard, right? Quite knowledgable, too."

Tom gave a cautious nod.

"Would you love me less if I suddenly lost my magic? If I forgot my smarts? Would I be less of a person?"

That gave the boy pause. He didn't answer. Harry had gotten through his thick skull, at last.

It really was much too early for this.

- LM -

"How did it go?" Albus inquired after a merry greeting, frowning when Harry banged his head to the counter with a groan, and stayed in the position he had landed in.

It was the first Saturday of September. Tom had been attending school for a week. At the present, the boy was upstairs in his room, brooding away, while Harry tended to the shop.

"It was horrible. Awful."

Albus conjured an armchair in the corner as it became routine — because occupying Tom's seat was obviously taboo, regardless of his presence — and sat down, eyeing the younger man in concern. "What happened?"

Harry peeked up at his friend with a miserable expression. "The first few days were all right, although by his accounts, Tom was bored out of his mind," Harry mumbled. "I knew he would be, but I didn't want him to skip grades from the get go, you see? I hoped he would find someone he could get along with his own age first," he added, feeling a need to defend his decision. Not that he had to; he and Albus had discussed Harry's reasoning behind Tom's placement with an appropriate age-group before, and the older man had agreed wholeheartedly.

Albus nodded patiently. "Of course."

"I had a talk with him Monday morning about making friends. It went pretty well." Harry said mournfully. "Anyway, on Friday, I went to pick him up to apparate him home as usual. And would you guess? It turned out Tom had actually been _communicating_ with his classmates. His teachers sang his praises during this conference thing they held for the parents."

Albus frowned in confusion. "That is good to hear."

Harry would have been happy with that too, if it wasn't for the rest Tom had told him about.

"But you know how Tom began demonstrating accidental magic for a little while now?"

"Yes. It is quite a feat for one so young."

Harry heaved a huge sigh. "Anyway, once we got home, Tom had a different story to tell. Kids can be vicious. Some idiot got jealous of his apparent popularity, riled him up so much, the guy got transfigured into a duck. You can imagine the chaos. Everyone was terrified before the Ministry Obliviators arrived."

"That's expected of muggles under such circumstances."

Harry shrugged. "Still, it hit Tom pretty darn hard — no matter how much he pretended otherwise — when they called him a 'freak' and 'evil', amongst other things, even the teachers. The muggles didn't need to remember for the incident to make its impact. The damage to Tom was already done."

There was a minute of silence while Albus contemplated the story.

"It will be alright. I'm sure Tom will be fine," Albus said in consolation. "Children are very resilient, in my experience. And Tom is smart; as long as you explain to him why his muggle classmates and professors were so scared-"

Harry glared at him, straightening. "Really," he said, voice filled with sarcasm. "You can't be serious, Albus. This is a disaster, and you know it. I made a mistake. I never should have made him go in the first place. It was stupid of me to force the issue."

It really was. Harry had spent not one, but two childhoods with muggles. He should have known better. He had been so blinded by his need to make Tom see their non-magical counterparts in a positive light, he had failed to consider how wrong things could go.

"Muggles and magic were never a good combination," Harry murmured softly, the self-reproach in his voice raw and cutting. "Muggles don't understand our powers. People are scared of us. And then, there are their religious beliefs. Our children shouldn't be subjected to their wrath."

Albus shot him a stern look. "None of that makes them bad. Only human."

"I agree." Harry shook his head. "That doesn't mean we should mix, though. The Statute of Secrecy isn't enough. Shielding the muggles from reality with such haphazard safety measures simply _isn't enough_. What about the protection of our children? The scars they will bear? The muggleborns, the half-bloods, cast into a world in which they are shunned? The Wizarding Government has been operating on the basis of one of the biggest errors any law enforcement or military force can make; they only act to remedy situations once the 'crime' — or the unintentional breach, in this case — has already been committed instead of _preventing_ it. It would be best for all involved if wizards and muggles didn't interact at all, in fact. I should have never subjected Tom to such an experience. What happened with him further proves my point though."

Harry had always thought so. He didn't know how he could have forgotten. In his blind bid to prevent another rise of Voldemort, he had ignored all common sense, everything experience had taught him. He had hurt Tom, too, with his willful ignorance, brought about the exact scenario that could feed the boy's hatred with his very own hands. Truly, Harry would have laughed at himself if the problem wasn't so serious.

Then again, Harry may have been overreacting a bit. It wasn't likely Tom's psyche would be irrecoverably damaged just because of one incident. The boy had stability and love in his life that the original Voldemort hadn't. Tom would never be a philanthropist, sure, but he wasn't a sociopath either. '_His regard for his fellow humans just needs a little work, is all_,' Harry thought stubbornly. Also, Harry was sure he was doing a decent job of encouraging the development of basic empathetic skills in Tom, regardless of this foolish mistake. He would be able to remedy what the muggles have wrought. He hoped.

But as Harry pondered, he saw Albus stiffen in his periphery. Harry winced — it wouldn't take a genius to predict the man's reaction to Harry's rant. He should have kept his big tap shut in Albus' presence, no matter how comfortable and happy he felt to finally have someone to talk to. He was just so unsettled, so angry with himself, he had needed to unload. But Harry knew Albus wouldn't appreciate such sentiments. He didn't want his only friend to become wary of him.

Sure enough, after a long, drawn-out sigh, Albus cleared his throat to speak. "What you propose isn't feasible, Harry. We do occupy the same world, wether you like it or not. And in any case, the ignorance of muggles is not their fault."

Harry frowned. "Are you really implying what I think you are? That muggles should be educated about our ways?"

Albus raised an eyebrow. "And if I am?"

Harry gaped. He had known Albus was somewhat idealistic in his views, especially when still so young, but this? This was beyond anything he could have imagined. "You're crazy," he breathed. He cleared his throat. "Albus, you know better than this. What do you think would happen if the muggles suddenly discovered us? Catastrophe wouldn't even begin to describe it!"

"That isn't necessarily true," Albus murmured, but seeing Harry's utter disbelief, mouth parted and eyes wide, he added, "Alas, the Wizarding World is not ready for such a change. Yet."

"Yet?" Harry spluttered.

Albus nodded. "I'm not proposing to tell the muggles about us, to throw the knowledge at them and let them sink. I'm afraid our own society wouldn't stand for it, wouldn't help them understand. Prejudices are hard to overcome. Eventually, however, it is my hope that this could change — on both sides."

"I agree about prejudices being a problem, but Albus, you are taking this too far! Do you even know what muggles are capable of? They would turn on us in a blink of an eye!"

"Not if they were introduced to the concept gradually, with care. Muggleborns have been born amongst them since the beginning of time. Mixed marriages often occur, too. Muggles are not animals; they can be reasoned with. They are able to accept us if explained properly and if helped along with patience during the transition. And in the end it would be for the greater good of all; we could all live in peace with each other, without all the hatred that has become the norm," Albus concluded passionately, with much emphasis on the slogan Harry came to know rather well in the past. Grindelwald's slogan, which Albus adopted during their youth. It was even stranger to hear it in this context, though Harry didn't know why he was so surprised.

Harry barked a hollow laugh. "Did I ever mention this? I am a muggleborn."

Albus looked taken aback for a split second before he recovered. "No, I haven't known."

Harry nodded. "Well, I am. I think I know more about the ways of muggles than you can imagine."

"And you dislike them? What about your parents?"

"Not at all. I loved my mother and father, and they loved me. They were among the nicest people I have ever known before they died."

Albus smiled gently. He seemed satisfied to be proven right.

"But," Harry continued, interrupting whatever foolish, delusional thoughts Albus was entertaining, "they were terrified of me. And for me. In society, I was ostracized because of my skin-color. I have to wear a glamour if I do not want problems, even when taking Tom to school. And at home? I was an outcast because of my 'demonic powers'. My parents thought I was possessed by Satan, Albus, and did their best to 'help' me. Can you imagine what its like growing up while believing you are a freak of nature? And these were people that _loved_ me, not strangers."

Furrowing his brows, Albus remained silent for a heartbeat. "I have spoken to muggleborns before," he finally said. "With a few exceptions, they seemed happy at home."

"Because they all eventually learn to accept their lot. Have you actually visited any _before_ Hogwarts? _Before_ they learned there were others out there like them? People who would really accept them?"

A reluctant shake of Albus' head was all Harry needed to drive his point home.

"Exactly. You cannot cure muggles, or people in general, of their inherent fear. They can live with it if circumstances force them to — such as having to choose between love of their child and the apprehension about terrifying abilities — but fact is, such a situation is still not favorable for either party. Love in itself is not necessarily enough to be happy."

Albus took a moment to collect his thoughts, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Are you implying that tearing families apart would be the solution? Is that what you mean by no interaction?" he asked, almost angrily.

Harry kept his expression blank, though on the inside, he was breaking. Albus would hate him for this. Harry didn't want to alienate him. But this couldn't go on, either. Albus had to understand. Harry didn't want to build their friendship on lies. The man would either accept their differing views, or he wouldn't. In the end, he settled with a vague "Perhaps."

The man's expression darkened further, but once he stopped to think about it, he only appeared sad, the spark in his eyes extinguished. Harry averted his eyes guiltily. Albus always had that strange talent about him; he could make people go to the extremes, if only to avoid disappointing him. Yet Harry knew he was right. He wouldn't let Albus influence him like that. He was not a naive teenager anymore.

"That is not the way to go about it, Harry," Albus began. "I am truly sorry you have experienced so much hardship, but you cannot think tearing children away from their parents would be conductive to anything. Family bonds are irreplaceable. And in any case, separating our worlds to such an extent would only breed further hatred and mistrust. Other solutions must be found."

Harry shook his head. "In some ways you may be right," he said. With such a degree of disconnection, prejudices would probably increase, especially in pureblood circles. However, Harry was much too resigned to human nature. Albus may think the best of everyone, but Harry knew better. Prejudices would remain regardless of what one did to be rid of them. It was simply the way of things, a part of life. They could be tempered with dedication, redirected, but never erased. "But mistrust of difference is unavoidable. And though it may not seem like it, I do have the best interest of all in mind. Our children deserve better, as well as the muggles whose lives get turned upside down by something they have absolutely no control over."

With a sad shake of his head, Albus stood. He took a few steps closer to Harry, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. Harry stiffened at the unfamiliar contact, but he didn't shrug it off. Only Tom ever touched him like that, yet Albus was also precious to Harry. And considering he may have been about to lose the man once and for all, Harry was thankful for any kind of connection.

"I can see your heart is in the right place, my friend," Albus murmured. "But how did you become so jaded, so cold? Do you hear yourself? What you are saying just _isn't right_. Our conversation may only be theoretical, but I am concerned for you if this is truly how you think."

"Isn't right for whom?" Harry whispered, his eyes fixed on Albus' chest. "For innocent children? For the muggles? Or for _your_ sensibilities?"

With a sigh, Albus backed away. "Very well. I can see we are not getting anywhere. I will leave the matter rest for now. But Harry, you will eventually understand that this ruthlessness is only hurting you. And if you're not careful, it could hurt young Tom as well."

Harry remained silent as Albus strode to the door. Before exiting, the man looked back.

"I must get back to the castle. I'm required to be there by the time the students begin to trickle in."

Harry nodded blankly. "Of course."

Then, to Harry's immense surprise, Albus smiled. "Until next weekend."

And Harry's mood brightened. He had underestimated Albus. Perhaps he hadn't lost his friend after all.

* * *

><p>AN: I finally did some proper **art** for the fic — a portrait of Harry. If you are curious about the complete, more detailed image, the link is on my profile!


	8. Chapter 8

Hello, dear readers!

I'm so sorry for the late update! I didn't have any time at all to get on the net during the hols, let alone update. I couldn't even answer all the reviews, as I would have liked. T_T Of course, I did a quick scroll through my - VERY cluttered - inbox, and have replied to what I was able to today, but if I missed anybody, and you have important questions, just send me a PM! Sorry again, and I hope this longer chapter will compensate somewhat. :)

Also, since there has been a little confusion about the reason I made the muggles react as they did the previous chapter, I thought I'd share with you some insight into the mentality of the masses during the timeline the story follows, to put things into perspective. I'm no expert on the subject, nor do I have a PhD in social studies, but here you go (as far as I know):

Witchcraft was considered a criminal offence until 1735 in Britain. However, even after that, numerous witch hunts took place across the world (Europe/Britain included). There are reported cases of alleged satanic witches getting burned alive at their village squares in 1840's and fraud/false trials with accusations of either made-up or true crimes resulting in executions to the very end of the 19th century. Actually, up to the mid 1900's, it wasn't that rare (mostly in rural areas) for people to get accused of witchcraft and 'causing' misfortune to befall neighbors/villagers etc.

In Harry's current time period (1930), enlightened, scientific thinking is on the rise, and education is helping things along, but most people are not there just yet. Tolerance is still to be gained, although the SLOW decline of discriminations (racial, gender-based, etc) and disbelief of witchcraft are spreading amongst common folk, but considering the above, what would happen if they were forced into a situation there is no other explanation for? Tom turned a classmate into a duck. Magic was staring them in the face. Even if someone present would have thought it great and funny, they wouldn't likely speak up for fear of getting ostracized themselves. So I wrote the resulting fallout in a way that seemed most logical to me. Then again, opinions may differ on the issue. I just thought I would explain my reasons. :)

Chapter 8

After Albus left, Harry had another torturous hour to go before he could close shop. Thankfully, there were no customers to disturb him, because in his state of mind Harry would have surely scared them away, never to visit again. Mrs. Bernart — as much as she washed her hands of the business these days, leaving just about everything up to Harry — would have been quite displeased if she learned of it.

As soon as six o'clock came, Harry was out of his chair, scurrying to the door to flip the 'Closed' sign over. Not bothering to draw his wand in his impatience, Harry made a negligent wave over the lock, activating the wards he himself had constructed after moving in, and hightailed it upstairs without a glance back.

He needed to talk to Tom, to check on him. The boy hadn't come down all day, and Harry was worried. The conversation he had had with Albus left him even more antsy to see how his charge was doing.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Harry banged the door to the apartment open, prepared to coerce, beg, and outright whine until he could get Tom to leave his room and _talk_. However, surprise slackened Harry's jaw as he barged through the hallway, only to catch sight of his charge sitting by the kitchen table, reading calmly. Lolly was also there, pottering about, preparing dinner.

"Tom?" Harry called.

The boy glanced up, lowering the copy of _Thestrals: Myth or Reality_ he had been absorbed in. Harry raised his eyebrows at the choice — the book was terrible. The author had no concept about the beasts, his 'study' mostly speculations based on false facts. Harry made a mental note to give Tom something more useful on the subject.

A moment later, however, Harry frowned. "Where did you get that?"

Tom shrugged nonchalantly. "From the shop."

"Really? I haven't seen you downstairs all day," Harry said, tilting his head.

Tom smirked. "I know," he stated smugly. "You were busy with Albus, from what I saw..."

Harry stared at him incredulously. Tom began to snicker, and Harry quickly snapped out of his daze. "Eavesdropping? Really, Tom?" he drawled.

"It's your fault you didn't notice. Besides, I only wanted a book — I wasn't planning on overhearing anything, and I didn't want to disturb you. But I think Albus noticed me," he mused.

Harry shook his head. "Sneaky bugger," he muttered. He pierced Tom with a sharp gaze. "How much did you hear?"

Tom arched an eyebrow, a gesture Harry recognized as his own. Tom exhibited more and more of those, ghosts of his Godfather's expressions appearing on his face. Harry found it cute, if slightly disconcerting.

"Enough."

Harry pursed his lips in impatience. "Tom..."

The boy ducked his head, realizing he may have taken this too far. "Enough to know you're not sending me back among the muggles."

Which explained why he wasn't sulking anymore.

Harry heaved a sigh, stepping closer to the table and plopping down on a chair. "All of it, then." He wasn't really angry. More disappointed in himself, to be so out of sorts as to fail at detecting his charge's magical signature hovering about.

"I suppose." Tom shrugged, a little uncomfortable if one knew the signs. Not that the boy would apologize — Harry could count the number of such monumental occasions over the years on his fingers. Tom was much too proud for his own good.

"Right." Harry nodded. "I might as well ask if you have any questions. I wanted to have this discussion with you anyway."

Tom perked up visibly.

"Not that I approve of your stunt," Harry added when he saw Tom's pleased grin at his words. "Next time I catch you eavesdropping, I'm inviting Mrs. Bernart over for a whole day."

Tom made an appropriately horrified face at the threat of the cruel punishment. Mrs. Bernart adored the boy, considered him to be an adopted grandson of sorts. The same went for Harry, for that matter. But of course, Tom couldn't stand to be anywhere near her. The boy's elaborate, desperate escape attempts from her cooing clutches were incredibly amusing to watch, though Harry always made sure to act sufficiently sympathetic at Tom's plight.

"Now," — Harry twirled a finger through the air — "ask away."

"I can stay home?" Tom questioned immediately. "You will teach me?"

Harry grinned. "I can help you with basic magical theory and such like always. That won't change. I'll also get you muggle books to study. I'm certain you'll find them interesting."

Tom's left eye twitched in annoyance. "Muggles are stupid," he muttered in a sullen tone.

Harry grimaced at that. "That's certainly not true. You can learn a lot from them. I understand if you dislike-"

"I hate them!" Tom snapped angrily.

Harry rubbed his forehead with a sigh. "I understand, Tom. Really, I do, after what happened. But you know they were just scared, right? Muggles don't have magic. They are taught from a young age about the evils of sorcery. They have bed-time stories about villainous witches, and children grow up fearing them. Their Holy Books condemn such things, too. Also, when you turned that boy into a duck, they had no way of helping him. What if it happened to them as well? They couldn't defend themselves, they were cornered, they were confused, so they lashed out. Understandable behavior, isn't it?"

"Understandable? It's _stupid_! They acted like wild beasts!" Tom exclaimed, angry red splotches tinting his cheeks.

"Perhaps, but it's still expected. It's human nature. You would do the same in their stead. Their fright doesn't make them monsters."

Tom scoffed. "I would _never_ act like them," he said in superior tone, and Harry had to admit — reluctantly — that it was probably true. Tom, even as young as he was, had much more poise, dignity and sheer stubborn arrogance than that. If backed into a corner, he would probably give the haughtiest glare he could muster, expecting submission like it was his due. Nonetheless, Harry knew Tom was smart enough to understand what Harry was trying to convey. He was just being difficult because of his hurt and indignation. "Besides, even you think we should keep away from them."

"Quite," Harry admitted with a nod. "But you heard me and Albus right? Muggles are people, no different from us. I don't hate them, and I don't want you to hate them either. However, I am sorry I have forced you into their company. I should have never done that. As you heard, I have been thinking on the matter, and I am now of the opinion that it would be best — for both muggles and wizards — not to interact at all," he said, then added in a mutter, "I only wanted you to make friends."

Tom sneered, but didn't answer.

"You don't really hate them either, do you?" Harry implored after a moment, his voice soft and cajoling.

"I do!" Tom spat, offended about there being any doubt on the matter.

"Do you remember what we discussed? On Monday? You can't fault people for _not_ having something. Your classmates don't have magic; the only reason for their behavior. I thought you understood?"

Hearing Harry's (deliberately) crestfallen, disappointed tone, Tom winced, crossing his arms defensively. "I-"

Harry upped the act, though he was careful not to overdo it, lest Tom begin to suspect. He slumped in his seat and stared despondently at the tabletop. He heard Tom shift.

"I-"

Harry let his hair fall into his face like a depressing, thick veil, his head bending down a notch.

"Fine!" Tom snapped at last. Harry hid a smirk. Too easy. "But I don't like them either! I never want to meet one of their kind again."

Harry straightened, shooting Tom a sunny smile as if nothing had ever happened. Understanding dawned on the boy, resulting in a mighty scowl. Harry shrugged. "I'm sure there will be no problem with that."

"You tricked me! I take it back! I hate them!"

Unimpressed, Harry rolled his eyes. "Whatever. In any case, I have conditions, now that you're not going to attend school."

Becoming wary, but doing his best to disguise it, Tom made an inquiring noise.

"You know how I was thinking about starting up my own business? Curse-breaking?"

Tom's eyes widened. "You want to leave the shop?" he asked with a note of panic.

Harry shook his head. "No, not at all." And really, Harry didn't. The place has grown on him. It was comfortable, and he liked having access to so many books, having become very fond of them during the course of this life, even if out of necessity. The varied, often intriguing texts had eventually become welcome companions to alleviate his self-imposed, lonely solitude. Tom loved it in the shop just as much, and Harry wouldn't be the one to tear him away from his home. But Harry was bored. He needed something more challenging to do. He had waited nearly five years already.

Tom breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"But," Harry continued, "I will be busy on my days-off. Those would be the only times I can accept job assignments."

"I can stay at home," Tom quickly offered, already beginning to suspect where Harry was heading with this, and not appreciating it one bit. Seeing his chance at Harry's continued silence, Tom pushed further. "Well, it's not like you can't trust me alone, you know that, right? And besides, Lolly is always around. You can ask her to keep an eye on me if you're worried," he said, glancing at the busy house-elf meaningfully. The poor creature shrank, feeling the silent demand in the tone.

"Yes, yes, of course, young Master Tom! Lolly can be helping! Lolly be good watcher!" she stuttered in a rush.

Harry groaned. "Tom, how many times have I told you not to bully Lolly?"

The boy blinked at him, innocent as ever. "I didn't. She offered it herself, didn't she?"

Giving his charge an annoyed glare, Harry stood. "Anyway, lucky for you, that _is_ what I planned to do for the time being. You will remain here with Lolly, and _behave_. But," Harry said, stretching, then walked towards the hallway, intending to take his well-deserved, relaxing bath after a long day, "when my new business-venture is established, and assignments begin to trickle in, I will be bringing you along whenever I can. I'm sure you will find the procedures interesting, and if all goes well, we will be visiting quite a number of Wizarding homes. You will be able to meet some of your future schoolmates, and who knows?" Harry winked back at Tom as he stepped through the doorway. "Maybe if you're charming enough, they'll let you check out the family-libraries."

Tom's face crumbled at the unpleasant prospect of socializing, but hearing Harry's last sentence, a contemplative frown emerged on his youthful features. Harry took that as a sign of victory. If nothing else, the possibility of gaining knowledge could always be counted upon as leverage over the boy.

Tom sighed. "You're not changing your mind about this, are you?" he asked in a tone of long-suffering resignation, though Harry knew that if he truly abhorred the idea, he would have put up a much greater fight.

Harry hummed in agreement.

"Fine," Tom agreed graciously.

"Let me know when dinner is ready," Harry said, and wandered off without another word.

- LM -

The next Saturday was the first school-wide Hogsmead weekend in Hogwarts, which meant Harry was not only forced to deal with the seventh years, but the rest of the younger students, too. Considering it was the beginning of the year, children still had spending money in abundance, and Ravenclaws, as well as Slytherins liked to visit the shop on a regular basis for a book or two.

Harry, however, was quite used to this rush already. His current annoyance had more to do with a certain sallow faced, brown haired ex-classmate of his, who considered it a good idea to make a nuisance of himself on the busiest day imaginable.

"Does this shop carry anything useful _at all_?" Hermetius LeStrange inquired with a haughty sniff.

Harry growled under his breath, startling a small, Rawenclaw girl browsing the titles right beside his counter. Tom, the little traitor, snickered in his corner, enjoying his Godfather's aggravation.

Harry took a deep, calming breath. '_No snapping at customers, no causing physical harm to customers, and especially no disemboweling customers with illegal, infinitely painful, slow-working curses,_' he repeated the silent mantra.

"LeStrange," Harry gritted out, "Benedict Bhorg's _Objects of Power_ is considered Dark, and has been specifically banned by Ministry regulations more than fifty years ago. I suggest you visit Knockturn Alley if you wish to purchase a copy." Harry should know — it had taken him ages to track the book down for himself, considering his interest in curse-breaking. One had to know what they were dealing with after all, had to understand the underlying magic to be able to successfully break it. Bhorg's writings were an excellent study and surprisingly objective in nature.

LeStrange sneered. "And you, being the perfect little model-citizen, would naturally abide by nonsensical laws, wouldn't you? You really are a disgrace," he spat.

Harry shrugged, taken aback at the spiteful words, but not showing it. LeStrange had been tiptoeing around him as much as everyone else until this point. Has he suddenly acquired a backbone?

Growing further incensed at not getting a reaction, LeStrange stalked closer, glaring over the counter at the lounging Harry hatefully. "You really are filth. The likes of you shouldn't even be allowed to attend Hogwarts, let alone get sorted into Slytherin. This is all you will ever amount to; selling second-rate books in a second-rate store, raising your second-rate brat. Fitting for a dirty mongrel, I suppose."

Harry blinked in surprise. He truly couldn't remember the last time someone had so openly insulted him. People had been curbing their tongues around him since before he had left Hogwarts. Yet now this... fool had the gall to do so in _his_ shop, in _his_ home, and — above all — right in front of Tom. Not only that, LeStrange actually _dared_ to take a jab at his Godson, too.

Harry's magic surged sharply, causing LeStrange's pupils to dilate. He stood, slow and measured, and the other man stepped back an involuntary step. Harry felt an odd, foreign sense of satisfaction at the motion, but he was much too angry to take note of it.

"I think it would be best if you left now, LeStrange," Harry drawled, his tone barely disguising his rage.

The man shivered, but he didn't turn tail immediately, like Harry anticipated. Instead, he straightened even further, lowering his brows as Harry's magic swirled around him aggressively.

"What? Is it hard to finally hear the truth from someone?" he pressed with a faltering sneer, yet despite exhibiting signs of discomfiture, he yapped on. "Everyone has been thinking it. Nobody could believe you would waste your life away like that, thinking it was a ploy of some sort, but obviously, they were wrong. Aspfang had been under the impression this would be temporary after you left school, too, but he was clearly mistaken in his assumption. Look at you! You are just a no-name mudblood after all, and could never be anything else!"

Harry cocked his head, his overactive magic reacting to his confusion with an almost audible zap. When Harry realized what he was doing, finally taking _conscious_ notice of his leaking power, he immediately forced it back down, strengthening his Occlumency shields to calm himself. He really needed to practice his control more if such a spike in emotion was able to bring forth this reaction. When had he lost the reins like this last? Perhaps he had grown too complacent. The lack of real negative stimuli had lulled him into a false sense of security. Harry had become too sure of himself, too arrogant. He needed to begin daily practice sessions again. However intimidating his unleashed magic could make him, Harry was above using it as a tool to get his way. He hadn't even done so in school. This wasn't like him at all, practically getting a high on his own power. Besides, losing control could result in a number of unpleasant consequences. Harry had no intention of killing someone by accident.

"What, pray tell, are you talking about?" Harry asked after a moment, fighting the last wisps of his magic back, concentrating on the immediate problem. LeStrange would have sounded disappointed, if Harry didn't know better. The whole situation was making less and less sense.

"Pretend all you want," LeStrange spat, whirling around, and nearly crashing into the little Rawenclaw girl, who had been trying to make a sneaky escape as the argument escalated. The girl squeaked when she found herself on the receiving end of the aristocrat's glare, and made a frightened dash for the door. Harry stared after her retreating form balefully, noting the store had mysteriously emptied during the last minutes. He only focused his green orbs back on the still jabbering LeStrange when the door banged shut in the Ravenclaw's wake.

"— can't believe we have been stupid enough to expect any different from someone like you. You can rot away in your meaningless life, for all I care," he concluded, shooting a scornful glower in Tom's direction before scoffing and stalking to the exit, slamming it shut without a second glance back.

Harry gaped at the spot LeStrange had stood in for a good minute. What in Merlin's name had that been about? It seemed like the two of them had been on completely different pages. Expectations? What expectations had Harry failed to meet? What right did anyone even have to _harbor_ expectations of him in the first place? Harry had certainly never encouraged such a thing. Hell, he abhorred the mere suggestion, considering his last life. And now he learns he had somehow inadvertently given the impression to his peers — his _Slytherin_ peers, at that — that Harry would... would do... what, exactly? What did LeStrange even mean? What was Harry supposedly failing to achieve?

Harry furrowed his brows in aggravated confusion. What a mess. It did explain why so many had been insistent about bothering him though. Now that Harry knew the root of the problem, he would have to get to the bottom of it. Whatever foolish hopes people had been entertaining would have to be dashed swiftly, or trouble would follow.

"Harry," Tom called out, and Harry quickly shook his head to clear it. Glancing at the boy in question, he immediately realized something was wrong. Tom appeared shaky, his face pale, and Harry lurched forward in a panic.

"Tom?" he breathed, reaching the armchair and kneeling to inspect his charge's unhealthy pallor, running a hand down his cheek. "What's wrong?" Did that bastard LeStrange curse him? It couldn't be — there were wards in place preventing ill intentions against the residents! Besides, Harry would have noticed, surely!

Tom shrugged shakily. "I feel... something was... I don't know!" he snapped with a shudder.

Harry tilted his head in confusion, running his fingers through Tom's hair soothingly. "You felt... — oh!" Harry wanted to smack himself. His magic. It was unlikely, Tom was much too young, but it was the only possible explanation. Tom never had the chance to feel it to this extent or so concentrated before. He was probably just shocked. Harry certainly hadn't directed any harmful intent towards him. "It was just my magic, Tom. It didn't hurt you, did it? I didn't mean to let it free like that, truly."

The boy shook his head hesitantly. "N-no. But- That was your magic? It was really... forceful."

Harry nodded. "Yes." Then he hummed in consideration. Perhaps... "Did it feel familiar?"

"I guess, a little, now that you mention it," Tom answered distractedly. "Like when I touch you."

Harry smiled. "That's right. Skin contact would make it noticeable. Magic is different in each individual — it's what we call their signature. And really, it's amazing you already notice it so keenly. You are quite young. Even adults have problems sensing such things, although the power you felt would have intimidated most, even if they couldn't put a name to what they were experiencing. But it wasn't directed towards you at all. I'm surprised you were affected by it," he said proudly, ruffling Tom's hair. Yes, his charge was amazing, really. Accidental magic at four? A clear sense of it, too? Extraordinary.

Tom's mouth curved into a small smile. "I'm special?" he asked, still a little subdued, but also eager.

Harry grinned. "Very."

- LM -

After the incident with LeStrange, which Harry was forced to put out of his mind for the time being, the time passed quickly. A week later, Harry and Tom got a visit from Dumbledore, and though the atmosphere had been tenser than usual, Harry held out hope that their relationship would iron itself out with time. Albus wasn't holding a grudge, for all appearances. He didn't even bring up their memorable conversation. Maybe it was all in Harry's head? Was he expecting Albus to condemn him? Experience had certainly taught him to be wary. People were prone to change their opinions of Harry at the drop of a hat, let alone based on such extensive difference in views.

Then again, Albus wasn't 'most people'. But on the other hand — based on Bathilda Bagshot's accounts all those many years ago — Harry clearly recalled that Albus had left behind his closest friend — only much later confirmed to be a true Dark Lord in the making — because of such a difference, though his decision had probably been more than a little influenced by his sister's tragic death. Even further puzzling, decades later he had all but adopted the most surly, unpleasant man with the disposition of a Hungarian Horntail, despite Snape having been a willing follower of Voldemort right up until the love of his life had been threatened. So, what would it be? Right now, Albus was still young. Harry didn't know what level of tolerance to expect from him.

He would have to wait and see.

On Monday morning, Harry was ready to tackle his newest challenge. There was much work to be done if he wanted to establish a business. Taking jobs through a third party, like Gringotts, was out of the question, even if they were known to employ most curse-breakers worth their salt in the industry. Harry, however, couldn't afford to run by their time-table, nor did he want to. Besides, as an individual he would be his own boss, and would have the say in which assignments to accept or decline. A definite plus.

So after breakfast, Harry said a cheery goodbye to Tom and Lolly, not bothered by the early hour, for once. He was much too excited. His exuberance couldn't even be dampened by visiting the Ministry, first thing. He rather disliked going there — in fact, the only occasion he had visited in these past twenty-one years was to take his apparition exam — but corrupt, dastardly bureaucrats or no, Harry needed a license to make things legal. However magical the Wizarding World was, Galleons didn't appear out of thin air — there was a tax system and resulting legalities to abide by. Thankfully, it would be a swift process based on Mrs. Bernart's accounts, whom Harry had already consulted on the matter; he just had to file a petition, after which he would get his official certification and related documentation via owl within a day, if all went well. Then again, why wouldn't it? They had no reason to refuse Harry. There was no question about his qualification with his Defense NEWT score. There was no other official training required for working in the field, which — though pretty damn stupid, not to mention dangerous, in Harry's humble opinion — was in his favor in this instance.

For the most part, things went just as expected. After flooing to the Atrium and striding to the front desk for a wand-inspection, Harry was directed to the appropriate department, the Administrative Registration, and filled out the provided forms in record time. After all, his business didn't need funding — required no real expenses on his part to begin with — and Harry simply indicated the bookshop as the base of operation, to which he added a written authorization slip from Mrs. Bernart as well.

The only small hurdle was setting up a Floo address, which Harry deemed necessary for the smooth flow of customers with more delicate problems. Not everyone could afford to discuss their specifications — or leave any tangible evidence at all — in letters. But this required an entirely different set of petition forms in an entirely different department, as the bookshop itself, unlike the apartment above, had no fireplace at the moment, thus would require Ministry employees to visit and install one capable of connecting to the 'Ministry approved' network — ergo, one that could be monitored, instead of the usual private connection. Harry was told, during a heated argument with the disdainful department head, that Mrs. Bernart would have to give him a separate permit for this. The original was already attached to a different document, even if it _did_ specifically allow for the establishment to be connected to the Floo. Of course, the slip couldn't be duplicated because "it would ruin the authenticity". Harry just snorted in disgust at that. Stupid Ministry procedures. Stupid Ministry.

On the positive side, the permission could be sent by owl, so Harry only had to ask Mrs. Bernart to write one and address it to the Department of Magical Transportation. All would be done within the day. Harry had already sent a letter to his landlady (and self-proclaimed surrogate grandmother) with the request.

All in all, Harry was done in the Ministry before noon. He decided to head home for lunch. Tom wasn't expecting Harry until late afternoon; it would be quite fun to drop in and catch him in the act of whatever mischief he was undoubtedly up to.

With an inward smirk, Harry walked to the telephone-booth exit instead of a fireplace, which provided a much too flashy exit from the flames. He would be sneaky; he would apparate in front of the shop, as the wards wouldn't allow such inside, and creep upstairs silently to see what his charge was doing during this rare opportunity — until now, Harry hardly ever left Tom alone. There had never been any need. It would be a good test for the future, to see if he could trust Tom's assurances, as Lolly _could_ and _would_ be bullied into keeping silent by the boy.

However, when Harry finally made it inside the apartment — after much tiptoeing and inward cursing at creaking door-hinges — he found Tom in his room, reclining on his bed, reading.

Harry sighed.

"How boring," he muttered, more crestfallen than pleased.

Tom glanced up with a raised brow.

"Hello to you, too."

Harry nodded with a half-hearted wave. It would have been so much fun. Why couldn't Tom act like a kid for once? Snoop in Harry's room, devour all the chocolate in the house, anything? Mini-genius or not, weren't Slytherins generally supposed to be crafty and ambitious? Harry himself possessed those traits as well, even if his definition of ambition differed from what most would consider the norm.

Oh, the woes of Godfatherhood.

"Are you hungry yet? I know it's a little early, but I dropped in to eat before I head out again."

Tom shrugged. "Not really, but Lolly will keep everything warm if you ask her to prepare lunch now, so I can eat later."

"Yeah, alright," Harry muttered. "See you later, then," he said, shutting the door, and sulked his way to the kitchen.

During his impromptu lunch — which nearly sent poor Lolly into hysterics, the zealous little elf berating herself for not having anticipated her master's whim — Harry was more than a little surprised when a Ministry owl delivered the documents certifying him as an independent curse-breaker. That had happened a lot faster than expected.

As he read, Harry grinned when he discovered a grant amongst the appendixes, allowing him a few spots of advertisement he could take advantage of in Diagon Alley. Apparently, this was the right of any Wizarding-owned business in Britain, if mostly disregarded as unnecessary. For Harry, it was good news indeed. He hadn't developed or maintained any social connections to make use of, and though the Wizarding World was small compared to the Muggle equivalent, this would help draw in any interested parties. More publicity would mean more customers. He had planned to visit Gringotts anyway to set up a separate, official vault. Now that he had this opportunity as well, his outing to Diagon Alley would turn out to be a pretty fruitful chore.

Yes, things were looking up.

* * *

><p>I edited it so there's no cliffy, instead of my original chapter! ;D My apologygift for the lateness. :3

HAPPY NEW YEAR!


	9. Chapter 9

Well, dear readers, there will be more exposition in this chapter than you have probably grown used to. I felt it's time to introduce/point out more of the heavier issues (I did attempt to make things interesting!) — Gellert is entering the scene soon, so take this as a lead-up to the juicy parts you have all been waiting for! He _is_ a politically inclined figure. ;)

Anyway, thank you for all your lovely reviews! Special thanks to the guests to whom I couldn't respond to! :)

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><p>Chapter 9<p>

It came as no shock that the first families to contact Harry with requests were of the Light or Neutral variety. The Dark clans, though undoubtedly in possession of more malevolent, cursed artifacts, would have no reason to ruin their precious heirlooms. Either that, or they would just practice more caution, and wait for Harry to gain a reputation. Most of them _were_ Slytherins. Not that getting sorted into the house of snakes had anything to do with their views, especially at the impressionable age of eleven, it just so happened that Darker lines had a penchant to rear their progeny by encouraging the development of a certain set of character traits — like poise, ambition, determination, ruthlessness, cunning, and the like — that landed them in Salazar's elitist house. And being as they were, they were unlikely to jump headfirst into any situation. Harry would have to prove himself capable first, regardless of his ex-housemates' unwanted expectations or interest in him — which he still had no idea what to do about, by the way. Harry suspected he would have to call forth his own deeply buried Griffindorish tendencies, and confront the next loiterer that came to bother him in the shop directly, for lack of anything better to do. The whole LeStrange fiasco was bugging him.

Alas, he did his best to concentrate on things that actually made sense.

Like a welcome opportunity to acquire a Hallow. Yes, that was a worthy goal, and could prove to be ridiculously easy to meet. Why would Harry wait for the heir to attend Hogwarts, plan out elaborate, seemingly impossible feats of theft from the school, when the esteemed Lord Potter himself had contacted him with a job offer, inviting the devil into his home, so to speak?

As such, one of the first assignments Harry accepted as an official curse-breaker was from the Potters. According to the specifications he had so far gotten in the letters they have exchanged, the family had some trouble with a portrait of an ancestor capable of using magic. The man would travel along paintings across the manor, and was a self-proclaimed prankster, but his tricks were of a malicious nature more often than not. With an underage heir running around, the situation was rather precarious, but the familiy's plight was not deemed high enough priority by the goblins to deal with as fast as the Potters would have liked.

And so, exactly two weeks after gaining his license, Harry was getting ready for the job. As the first and most important occasion to prove his competence, as well as to make a professional impression, Harry would be leaving Tom behind. Besides, he had ulterior motives. If he was caught stealing the invisibility cloak — which was always a possibility — he didn't want his Godson mixed up in it. Naturally, he would be extremely cautious for more reasons than one, like avoiding breaking his chosen career amongst other things, but the Hallows were much more important than any reputation of trustworthiness. In fact, second only to Tom himself. In any case, the worst case scenario — not counting the brand on his good name — would be receiving a hefty fine by the Wizengamot for such a petty crime.

Harry used his shiny new 'public business Floo', as the Ministry officials had called it during the installation, and stumbled out of the fireplace in an empty receiving chamber of the Potter Manor around three in the afternoon, as previously agreed upon. A tiny, excitable elf popped in immediately after his arrival, and squeaked at Harry to follow her while bouncing towards the door.

Harry did so with an imperceptible grin. House-elves could always be counted upon to amuse.

The interior of the manor was nothing and everything like Harry expected. After ducking out of the chamber, Harry was greeted by the sight of a vast hall with numerous corridors and a marble stairway, leading to different quarters of the building. There was also an enormous, double-winged door facing the one he had exited, probably the main entrance, the polished wood decorated by detalied cravings and metal designs. However, this was where the resemblance ended to what Harry could recall of the Malfoy's pompous, cold manor house.

The walls here were painted a soft shade of peach, and had colorful tapestries, paintings, and various knick-knacks displayed all over to create a cheery sort of chaos. The floor was tiled with creamy marble bricks to match the stairs, and had — to Harry's astonishment — a Celtic knot of prosperity craved upon it, stretching all the way across, reminescent of a compass' design. Harry had no doubt that the points represented the four Cardinal directions accurarely.

Harry hadn't expected such a blatant display of Olde Magicks to be present in a predominantly Light home. Then again, the Potters were purebloods, their inclination notwithstanding, and would thus have been, at some point in the past, practitioners of the old ways. It was just in the recent centuries that such ancient, ritualistic magics had gained a stigma, all but forgotten except for the silly, pointless runic studies, taught in linguistic terms only and taken out of context. For the most part, this was due to the traditionalist Dark families' aggressive campaigns that promoted the might of the olden powers, wanting to make the declining ancient practices obligatory. Nowadays, anything remotely associated with the Dark was deemed Dark by nature. Harry had already grasped the surface of this problem in his previous life, but his ventures to the Hogwarts library's restricted section this time around gave him a much clearer understanding of what the sheer stubbornness and intolerance of their government had wrought — the complete ignorance of whole branches of useful magics and Wizarding traditions. Celtic — or Druidic — magic may not have been altogether forbidden, as there was indeed no basis for that, but their practice was heavily frowned upon and had mostly faded into oblivion for the majority of the Wizarding population.

However, regardless of the sad state of affairs, Harry was pleased that the Potters were seemingly exceptions to the foolish behavior of their peers. They may not have been his relatives anymore, but he had a sentimental — although distant — connection to them, still. He had never personally met these people, but it was gratifying to know they were not blindly giving in to propaganda nonetheless.

"Mr. Marlowe, I presume?"

Harry quickly snapped his eyes in the direction of the voice. Devan Potter — the current Lord of the House — was a man of authoritative, regal bearing, but his brown eyes, somewhat obscured by a messy, bitterly familiar nest of black hair, sparkled with a muted warmth as he strode down the stairs, smiling at Harry.

Harry made very sure to extrude an air of geniality, not wanting the man to be tense in his presence, and bowed his head respectfully in greeting.

"Lord Potter, it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance," he said smoothly. Etiquette was important if he wanted to be taken seriously, especially when still so green in the field. And spending seven years in Hogwarts' snake pit, Harry had learned many a useful pointer. He was dressed for the occasion as well; formal, deep green robes, buttoned up prim and proper, complemented by a pair of dragongide boots. His professional image was accentuated by him taking the time to actually style his hair, for once, pulling it back into one thick tail in the back. Harry was usually much too lazy to care beyond taming the wiry strands into vague neatness with the braids (with practiced cosmetic charms he would _never-ever _admit knowing), letting them dangle around his shoulders freely, but meetings with pureblood employers were enough incentive to make this minimal, additional effort.

"The pleasure is mine," the Lord returned with a boyish grin. He strode toward Harry with confident steps, and extended a hand after halting precisely two feet apart. Harry found the mix of formal and informal signals the man was projecting a bit odd, yet refreshing at the same time. He shook the offered appendage, and let a small smile grace his lips. He needed to appear honest and open; it wouldn't do for the man to become apprehensive of Harry's presence. He still only had vague suspicions about what made most so cautious around him, but he would do his best to negate the effect, now that it coincided with his purposes.

"Thank you for inviting me to your home. I understand you have problems with a portrait, yes?" Harry asked, getting straight down to business. However much he could grow to enjoy Devan Potter's company, he _wasn't_ Harry's family, and would never be. There was no use in getting _too_ friendly either, only to regret what could have never been.

"Ah, quick to the point," Lord Potter said cheerfully, motioning for Harry to follow him as he began walking in the direction of a corridor to the right. "I do appreciate that. You are right, we have been troubled by that blasted painting for years. Great Uncle Tompor's portrait had always been strange, but not long after Charlus' birth, he turned progressively more... nasty in his pranks."

"Charlus?" Harry asked, though he knew it was probably the small boy he had spied when he had first gone after the Hallows.

Lord Potter nodded. "My son. He will be attending Hogwarts next year."

"And you say the portrait has been acting out since his birth? How come it hasn't been dealt with yet?"

Lord Potter scowled. "The goblins keep canceling our appointments with their curse-breakers, and any independent practitioner we have hired wasn't able to do anything of real use." He shot Harry a sidelong, calculating look. "We were quite hopeful about the new name that appeared in the business. I would certainly be happy to see some results, at last. Note that I don't offer payment for failed services, however."

"Understood, of course."

After a satisfied nod, Lord Potter continued down the corridor, passing a number of closed doors until he stopped, having reached the correct one, and opened it before waving Harry inside.

"Here is the original frame, but Great Uncle rarely spends more than a few minutes in it a day. He does come back to sleep, though," he told Harry, pointing at a painting of an empty, majestic wingback chair. The room itself was otherwise bare with white, clinical walls. "This chamber is warded, but he still manages to travel throughout the manor. The canvas cannot be destroyed by any method we have tried so far, and even if we were able to, the portrait of the man would remain free to roam, unless we could somehow pin him in his frame. Then again, we would rather preserve the painting. Regardless of the headache he causes, he is still an important ancestor."

Harry grimaced sympathetically.

"How troublesome," he murmured in contemplation.

Lord Potter snorted. "Quite. The blasted prankster keeps charming the floors and stairs slippery — more than one of us had dangerous accidents by falling. Great Uncle also finds amusement in jinxing our silverware, our door handles, even some of our heirlooms!" he snapped in clear anger and frustration.

Harry lit up inwardly at hearing that. This was better than good — he could pin the invisiblity cloak's disappearance on the joke-happy painting! How very lucky! Not that he didnt have a dozen other half-formed plans to fall back on, but this would make things so much easier than he had originally anticipated. Now, to get his employer out of his hair...

"I understand," Harry said, clearing his throat. "This may take a while..."

Honestly, it wouldn't. Harry already had a good idea how to solve the meddlesome portrait's issue. But Potter didn't need to know that, did he?

"Yes, I thought it would," the Lord said with a sigh. "Bonny!" he called, and the house-elf that had greeted Harry appeared with a muted pop. "Stay with Mr. Marlowe. If he needs anything, assist him. Let me know when he's done."

"Yes, Great Master Lord Devan Potter, sir!" she squeaked. "Bonny be helping Mister Marlies!"

Harry guffawed at the mangled name before he could stop himself, but he promptly schooled his expression when Potter shot him a baffled kind of half-grin. Harry shrugged, still snickering inside. Elves really were great entertainment.

Before Potter exited the room, Harry called after him, "Oh, and I may need to find the wayward Great Uncle, Lord Potter. Do I have your permission to leave the chamber if necessary?"

"Of course," he answered easily. "Bonny can help you find him."

Harry smiled charmingly. "Thank you."

"Well then, I shall see you later, Mr. Marlowe," Potter said in parting, and walked out of the room.

Ignoring Bonny shuffling and bouncing in the corner like an over-excited bunny, Harry eyed the painting for a moment or two. It would probably be better to deal with it after he actually had the cloak, lest the Lord check in and find the job done without Harry getting his chance. But he did walk closer to inspect the canvas, to see if his suspicions about the cause of 'Uncle Tompor' possessing magic were correct. And, sure enough, _if_ one knew what to look for — which an average curse-breaker certainly wouldn't — they could detect numerous, tiny, stylized symbols, cleverly hidden in the brush-strokes used to paint the cushioned leather chair. Harry snorted at the simplicity of it. Or was it ingenuity? Frankly, Harry would have had a lot of trouble piecing the puzzle together himself, if not for the blatant display of Celtic magic he had noted previously. He was just surprised it hadn't occurred to Lord Potter before.

The portrait was not cursed. That was why no curse-breaker had been able to find a counter. It just collected ambivalent magic like a sponge for the free use of it's mischievous resident, all with the application of specific, but simplified Celtic knots of power. 'Uncle Tompor' himself probably had a few hidden away on his person as well. All in all, it was a simple enough matter to solve.

That settled, Harry quickly turned his attention on the more pressing issue of acquiring the Hallow. First of all, he needed to know exactly what kind of wards he was working against. The last time he had scoped out the manor had been from the outside. Now that he was in, the more intricate protections were the main concern. And the elf — not to forget about the elf.

Harry shot a surreptitious glance at Bonny. She was humming to herself merrily, not paying him a lick of mind. But Harry knew she was alert. House-elves rarely, if ever, failed their masters, and did everything in their power to follow orders above and beyond what anyone could reasonably expect. However, they did not understand Wizarding magic. Harry would make good use of this.

Harry backed away from the portrait, and drew his wand. He wouldn't be casting with it, but Bonny could be easily deceived into thinking he was. He pointed the stick in the general direction of the painting, and while murmuring some nonsensical gibberish, he concentrated his power on sharpening his senses and revealing the structure of the wards on the home. It required a lot more energy than he was comfortable with expending, seeing that it was the details of the web he was interested in, but the sacrifice would be worth getting a little tired.

And... yes, he felt them now. The chamber itself was covered by a dome-like ward that would prevent anything or anyone older than a certain age leaving its confines, logically maybe a hundred or so. As Potter had mentioned, it was in place to serve as a poor attempt to contain the portrait's wandering, who wouldn't be affected by any restricting wards in the first place, as he didn't exist on the physical plane. The protection would, however, keep the cloak in, if Harry brought it there.

Otherwise, Harry could feel a number of standard wards, attached to a single grounding stone hidden away somewhere deep in the manor — the usual procedure. The more dangerous blood-tied wards were designed for keeping uninvited people _out_. Those obviously had no bearing on Harry at the present. In any case, the protections pertaining to his cause were set against ill intent, theft and Dark magic — all easily bypassed or circumvented. Harry harbored no ill will against the residents, so that particular layer could be outright ignored. The anti-theft... Harry wasn't _thieving_, per se. The invisibility cloak was his by virtue of more than one claim; he had inherited it at one point in time, and became the undisputed Master of it later on as well. The Hallow belonged to him as much as it did to any Potter, pure and simple.

Dark magic — now these categorizations were topics Harry had always found fascinating, ever since his discovery of the obscure, forgotten branches of magic in Hogwarts, and had looked closer into the reason of their decline.

'Dark', as it was, had no true or universal definition whatsoever. If one wanted to be technical, there was no such thing at all. Dark, Light, Neutral; they were all more or less fancy labels for moral value systems. Rather murky in their application, too. Dark traditionalist families, for example, were referred to as such because of their disregard for their fellow humans and sentinent magical species, and because they weren't shy or hypocritical about their views or methods either. But then, there were the Light families, who — though in disagreement about the dehumanization of muggles, muggleborns and halfbloods — were equally vicious in their discrimination against magical creatures, mostly against those deemed inherently 'Dark'. It was all incredibly contradictory and rather nonsensical. Defining Dark was like defining evil and good: futile and subjective. Yet it was as it was, and since nobody was protesting against their respective labels, the status quo would remain.

However as such, any magic performed would be categorized by circumstance, not by nonexistent properties. Magic was simply magic. Performing Dark, Neutral or Light spells were the users' and their peers' matter of perception, not some vague distinction in the power incorporated to achieve the desired effect, nor could it be decided based on Ministry verdicts unless the respective casters _believed_ in those verdicts themselves. And as Harry's success now depended heavily on Bonny's cooperation, this was a handy way to skirt the ward. Harry didn't wish to harm Bonny. He wasn't sadistic or malicious, he even liked the creature. Also, it was _Harry's_ mindset and will that would get channelled into the casting, which the anti-Dark ward would then analyze, not anyone else's. And Harry didn't believe he was Dark, nor that he would be performing Dark Arts.

And so, when the word was uttered, the actual magic produced was perceived as Neutral, acceptable in 'nature'. It had nothing to do with the amoral desire to control or to hurt, neither with any selfless wish to help, but _everything_ to do with necessity and a justified goal.

"Imperio."

Bonny froze immediately. Her eyes became glazed, and Harry could feel the connection they now shared, the elf's mind in a tranquil, pleasant haze, thanks to the spell.

"Bonny," Harry began, not taking his eyes off the deserted painting. He had to make sure the elusive Uncle wouldnt accidentally drop in at the wrong moment. "I would like you to answer a few questions for me. First of all; do you know about an invisibility cloak the Potters own, one that has been passed down to each heir through the generations?" He had to be specific — there was a chance they could own more than one similar item, but it was only the Hallow that could have kept it's power through the course of the centuries.

Bonny nodded dreamily. "Bonny knows."

"Is it kept in the manor?" If it wasn't, Harry would be upset indeed.

"Yes."

"Good," he sighed. "Where is it kept, exactly, and what protections does it have?"

Bonny swayed on her feet. "It's be in Master's and Mistress' bedroom. In the angry trunk."

Harry snorted. So the trunk was warded and cursed against unauthorized intrusion. Understandable and smart, but Harry _was_ an adept curse-breaker. He couldn't secret away the whole trunk because the anti-theft wards on the manor would react to that, but hostile enchantments should be simple enough to take care of if he had direct access to the object they were tied to.

"Are there any paintings in your Master's bedchamber?"

"Two," the elf answered, then mumbled something about winter scenery being the Mistress' favorite.

"Is there anyone in the room right now?"

She shook her head.

"Apparate me there, then."

Bonny did so without a moment of hesitation. She grabbed Harry's hand, and popped him away to the requested destination. Harry staggered when they arrived — elf magic was very different and disorienting to experience. Not at all like Wizarding apparation. With Bonny, he was in one place, then in another the next second. No uncomfortable pressure, nausea, nothing, but all the more disconcerting for it. It had been the same with Dobby, all those years ago.

When he regained his bearings, Harry quickly took stock of his surroundings. The bedchamber was spacious, decorated with red, yellow, gold and blue. A large four-poster bed with silk sheets and hangings stood to the right, facing doors of what were bound to be the bathroom, walk-in closet, and exit. On the light blue walls hung the two paintings Bonny had mentioned. They indeed depicted only winter scenery, and had currently no annoying Uncles or other nosy ancestors spying in the frames, much to Harry's immense relief. At the foot of the bed stood a small trunk with golden inlays depicting ferocious lions. It also displayed an elaborate, almost garish lock Harry knew was only there for show. The difficulty of opening it lay in the magic he could feel radiating from the trunk. He pointed at it.

"Is that where the cloak is stored?"

The elf bobbed her head.

"Alright. Bonny, now I want you to go around the manor, and permanently banish exactly ten objects you find. At least two should be heirlooms, but none important enough that their loss would cause grief. Vases, china, that sort of thing. I also want you to be very careful not to be seen. No one can notice you; not the Potters, not any other elves, not the portraits. Only target places where there are similar paintings of scenery, but not of people." Harry instructed, gesturing at the wall. "Come back here when you're done."

After the elf disappeared, Harry strode to the trunk at once. He knelt, already casting all the revealing charms that came to mind. The protections he discovered were extensive, and quite harmful if disturbed, but none were particularly tricky to get rid of. The most troublesome of the lot was the password ward. But considering Harry had already done away with all other enchantments, he decided to be practical; after casting a Silencing Charm, he blasted the whole lid off. Not a terribly refined method, Harry would be the first to admit, but it got the job done.

The sight of the invisibility cloak filled him with joy and despair in equal measure. He loved it for the memories it represented, but hated it for what it was. A Hallow. The literal bane of his existence, without any amount of over-exaggeration. Unlike it's two counterparts, however, Harry was attached to this one, so finally having it back in his hands filled him with a confusing mix of emotions.

Alas, this was not the time to muse about his jumbled feelings. He couldn't afford the distraction.

Harry stood, clutching the slippery material tightly. With a wave of his wand, he banished the shattered trunk it had been stored in. The first part of the winged plan was complete. Now he only needed to wait for Bonny.

The nerve-wracking minutes ticked by agonizingly slow. Now that he had nothing else to focus his concentration on, Harry was becoming more paranoid by the second. Adrenalin was causing his heart to pump madly, worsening the pressure behind his eyes he had been more or less able to ignore so far. He even draped the invisibility cloak over himself — it would not do at all to get discovered on the 'crime scene'.

When Bonny finally made it back to the bedroom, Harry gave an explosive sigh of relief.

"Finally," he muttered. "Did you succeed, Bonny? Did anyone see you?"

The elf shook her head. "No, Mister Marlies. Bonny be good and sneaky. Bonny did as told."

"Very good. Thank you," Harry said. She wasn't helping of her own volition, and wouldn't remember any of the events later, but Harry was grateful nonetheless. "Now, can you apparate outside of the manor without alerting anyone?"

"Bonny can."

Harry grinned. "Then I'm giving you this." Harry ripped the cloak off, and thrust it into her arms. "Pop away to Hogsmeade's bookshop and hide it behind the counter. Come back immediately."

"Bonny be doing that, Mister Marlies," she affirmed dreamily, and did as instructed. The wards let her through with the cloak, not reacting by so much as a twinge. It was Harry who ordered her to take it, and the Hallow was his to do with as he pleased.

She was back within a minute at most. Harry made her transfer the both of them back to the age-warded chamber, and quickly cancelled the Imperius, shooting an Obliviate at her before she could shake off the disorienting effects.

Harry then made short work of negating all magic — including the Celtic knots — on Uncle Tompor's canvas by using a powerful symbol himself: the empty circle — Zero. He drew it on the back of the painting with a conjured brush, where it wouldn't ruin the artwork, and channelled magic into every inch of the single, rounded line. This would not, in reality, break any of the enchantments, nor would it cancel the existing symbols. That was impossible without destroying the painting. But emptiness was infinite by definition, and thus mightier than any other power in existence. It swallowed all in its wake.

And with that done, Harry could begin the hunt for Uncle Tompor. He would make a show of chasing the prankster through the corridors, and tell Lord Potter that the wizard kept banishing things in his rage after realizing the secret of his abilities had been discovered. Harry only had to goad him back to his original frame before he could be interrogated, which shouldn't be too hard with a few sly mentions of the Olde Magicks Harry would make. Once in the frame, Uncle Tompor would roam no more. The magic that animated him in the first place would be siphoned away. The magical Void would see to that.

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><p>AN: So, I hope the action alleviated any possible exasperation with all the background knowledge and theory. But if you were bored out of your mind; I'm sorry. I find such topics interesting to dissect, but you guys are the readers, not me. However, Gellert is indeed appearing soon! And some of these things were necessary to give you perspective without making _him_ boring.

(Trivia: 'Tompor' is a polite, outdated term for 'rump' or 'buttocks' in Hungarian. You can call the guy Uncle A**hole! Bwahahaha! Haha... ha... er...

Ahem.

Yeah, I'm having fun. Besides, it rhymes with Potter and sounds funky when pronounced in English. Like for everything else, blame my deranged muse, please.)


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